Are we destined to really only do what we want to? In a veiled attempt to create some variety into my cooking regime, I decided to increase the limited range of soups on offer. I'm not a soup fan. I have always associated it with illness or failing dentures. Tomato soup is acceptable and onion soup only with the boldest of stocks, and a melted cheesy baquette boat serving as a delicious dive wreck at the bottom of the bowl. The other reason I'm considering upping the soup ante is that I have succumbed to the shared household pre-winter lurgy. So I started with a pumpkin. A fine specimen to be had from a recent trip to the Launceston Farmers Market. A joyful looking colour of a vegetable. So I made pumpkin soup and it was awful. How can you get something so simple so wrong? I combined a few recipes and roasted the pumpkin with took dispute with the recipe variations. Then I added more sour cream and the whole thing became bad soup trying to be a desert - too much cream. Then it hit me. I just don't like pumpkin soup. Never have. Unless it's disguised with enough spice to register itself either Moroccan or Thai the old faithful is never my chosen option. Perhaps we are just destined to turn out joy in our cooking only when we truly want it. Or maybe I should just go back to bed as Max suggested and ride out my failing energy levels. There will be no soup today.
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