Here's the deal, people. I'm a professional lady of many talents, but I take my homemaking skills seriously. Beds are made every morning. Brownies are made from scratch, preferably with hazelnut spread. And soup? Soup is a goddamn religion.
We all know that homemade chicken soup is infused with magical powers. It just is. But when I say homemade, I mean you don't start with a box of Campbell's broth. Bullshit. NO. You start with a damn chicken. Like Perdue. You wanna kill the sucker yourself, go for it, but really, that's magic overkill.
You immerse the chicken in water. You simmer it. You chop vegetables. You watch the Oscars for four hours while it turns into liquid gold. You tend to that sonofabitch. You drain it. You skim it. You pick its dead carcass. You get meat out of vertebrae. It's messy and involved and infused with LOVE.
Then you freeze it. You wait until you or a loved one fall ill. Then you bring it out of cryonics to save the day, like Stallone in Demolition Man. Chop up a few more veggies. Add some egg noodles. What's that, cold virus? FUCK YOU. YOU ARE NO MATCH FOR UNBEATABLE SOUP LOVE MAGIC. BE GONE.
And that's what soup is all about.
I cooked up a ton of this recently. I decided I would have it for my dinner at work this week. So I brought 2 quarts of it in Tupperware, and put it in the Ackloo fridge. Out of the way. Not taking up much space. Ahn. I'd be healthy, well-fed, and if anyone fell ill, I could easily deliver the magic elixir to them on the way home. Soup love magic!
So on Friday night, after a hard day of doing nothing much except SAVING THE WORLD AND STUFF, I just wanted a bowl of soup. So at 6, I went off to the fridge and...
Nothing.
No soup.
No Tupperware.
No magic.
No dinner.
So I did the only logical thing. I bitched about it on Twitter, fired off some incensed texts to friends about a soup thief, and then I blogged it out. It's a process.
I can only hope that this was some Les Miserables-type-shit wherein someone was so desperately ill and poor that they were too ashamed to even ask for the soup. That would be heartwarmingly lame.
But I think it was just a thieving douchenozzle.
So. Hours of preparation. Gone. Just think about that the next time you raid the office fridge. You're not just stealing dinner. You're stealing magic.
I hope you choke on a magic egg noodle, soup thief.
UPDATE: The soup apparently fell victim to an overzealous cleaning crew on Friday. I have recovered my Tupperware. I have not, however, recovered my indignation. Aggressive labeling system now in place for all fridge commodities.
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