Sometimes, the only thing that will do is a big ol’ bowlful of warm carbs and calories. Potato soup is my favorite way to fill that bowl.
This recipe is pretty simple, though circumstances often add extra ingredients and steps that aren’t in the original.
Yesterday, in fact.
I’ve placed the original in bold—feel free to leave the rest out.
If you can.
—two long carrots or the equivalent in baby carrots
—two ribs of celery
—six medium all-purpose russet potatoes or the equivalent in whatever size tubers you have handy
—a couple cans or containers of chicken broth, or veggie broth if you prefer (either way, don’t bother with the good stuff)
—a cat with separation anxiety
—one or two onions
—two bored children
—6 Tablespoons butter/margarine
—6 Tablespoons flour, combined with:
—1 teaspoon salt
—½ teaspoon pepper
—garlic powder to taste
—1 ½ cups of milk (I use 1%, because that’s what we have)
—a cell phone, sans headset, with your parents on the line
—shredded cheese (optional)
—cooked, crumbled bacon (optional)
Chop the carrots up small, because they’re only a gesture to nutrition anyway, and toss ’em in the pot before marauding children can steal them all off the cutting board. De-thread the celery—is there a real cooking term for that?—and do likewise, though there’s no rush because the kids hate celery. Drown ’em with the chicken broth—the veggies, not the kids—because you have several potatoes to get through and you don’t want the first two to go purple on your cutting board while you deal with the rest. One or two at a time, peel all the vitamins off the potatoes, chop them into bite-sized pieces, and add them to the swimming party. If it looks crowded, add a little water to cover, bring to a boil, cover, and simmer.
Meanwhile, chop the onion into small pieces and call your parents because it’s been about two weeks since you’ve talked to Dad and you keep missing Mom. Talk for a couple of minutes about hot dog calamari and why grandparents should really be the ones to introduce children to the real deal while parents record the event for engagement parties and blogs. Step on the cat’s tail.
Check the veggies after ten minutes—the potatoes are done when they’re soft enough to squish between your fingers, if you were dumb enough to try that with a hot piece of potato, which you won’t be because I am a walking cautionary tale with two burnt fingers. Agree to make Hot Dog calamari for the children because you feel guilty for saying that Bad Word that you aren’t sure if they heard.
Talk to Dad about why the scenes he likes in your WIP he’s reading were edited out in the new draft. Tell your children to stop throwing the ball in the kitchen, please, and if they want to help, they can stand over there and assemble their own dinner. Smile as they evaporate and discuss your parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, which is coming up way too soon.
Put your colander over a saucepan, because you’ll need the cooking liquid later, and drain the veggies. Put the empty pot back on the burner and toss in the butter or margarine to melt it, which it will do quickly, so be ready with the onion, which you will saute until it goes translucent. Alternate stirring with jamming spaghetti into pieces of hotdog, while telling your children again not to play catch in the kitchen and remind them in a tone you will later wish you hadn’t used in your parents hearing that you are on the phone.
Apologize to your parents, pick up the bowl with the flour, salt, pepper, and garlic and step on the cat again. Sweep the spilled flour mixture off the counter and dump it in the pot. Stir until you’ve make an oniony roux and slowly add the milk , stirring constantly until it makes a lovely sauce. End your phone call because you need both hands now. Fold in the cooked veggies, but don’t worry about being careful, since the potatoes are supposed to disintegrate. Much like your sanity.
Add a little of the reserved liquid to the pot to until the soup is the consistency you want and turn the heat as low as it goes. Carry the half-full saucepan to the sink and trip over the cat, drenching yourself in warm chicken broth and hollering at him to get the hell out from under your feet, as he leaps away and crashes into the cabinet. Look up to see your younger child staring at you in disbelief and try to explain that you hadn’t kicked the kitty, honey, you just tripped.
Decide to leave out the bacon because in your current spiral, a house fire or third degree burns seem inevitable. Fill a small bowl with shredded cheese and use a few shreds to bribe the cat into forgiving you before he does something unspeakable somewhere unthinkable.
Clean up the kitchen as the now subdued children set the table, more or less.
Serve the soup, and psuedocalamari, with potato rolls and fresh carrot sticks.
Enjoy a bowl of well-earned comfort food, knowing full well that if you hadn’t decided to make it, you wouldn’t need it so much.
But it’s still worth it.
23 thoughts on “Recipe: Potato Soup, Sanity Optional”
This looks scrumptious. I think writing recipes could be another venue for you in the writing world.
I’ts totally worth the meltdown, Lisa. Especially if you risk the bacon.
A cookbook wold be fun, but unfortunately, the recipes aren’t particularly original—wonder if there’s a way to credit them?
Now I’m hungry for potato soup!
I was—but i had it for lunch and dinner today.
I’m totally comforted . . . but I’m done now. 😉
If you wrote cookbooks, I would attempt to cook more often.
So much for being a cautionary tale!
And only if you illustrate it, Mike.
My knife skills would totally go with your Mom With No Nose drawings.
I see a collaboration in our future…
I am low-carbing it these days, and haven’t had potatoes (or bread, rice, pasta, or sugar) in two months. You realize that I will now think about nothing but this potato soup for the rest of the week, right?
Sorry, Sherry . . . 🙂
Substitute dog for cat and yeah, I think I’ve made this soup before.
If I’d had a dog, I wouldn’t have had to sacrifice my socks to mop the chicken broth off the floor. . .
Are you sure about the recipe being the part in bold? Because, well, you know I’m not much of a cook but I have definitely made the other. Many, many times.
(And add me to the list. If this were a cookbook? Are you kidding me?? It would be a best seller. Think about it. No, seriously. Think about it.)
I’m pretty sure . . .
The Frazzled Non-Cook’s Guide to Cooking with Children.
Hmmm . . .
Better yet, The Frazzled Writer’s Guide to Cooking with Children. Or, how about, The Frazzled Writer’s Guide to Cooking CHILDREN (No need to use bold. I was simply emphasizing my point.)
Oh, and by the way, from my vantage point you are so, totally a cook and I totally bow to your abilities.
You haven’t seen Watson work a kitchen—she’s the cook around here!
Though I do make good biscuits.
In all fairness, Sunny runs a mean stand mixer. Unfortunately she enjoys sneezing into the mix at the same time *nose flattens in slight disgust*
Are you making those peanut butter kiss cookies?
If you write an entire cookbook like this, I’ll buy it. And if you keep posting them on your blog, I’ll always read it, bookmark it and tweet it. Awesome. 🙂
Thanks, Lisa! 😀
Reblogged this on Taps and Ratamacues.
a very tasty sounding soup. Sorry for the accidental reblog. And I don’t even have a cat to blame it on. 🙂