The Potato Soup
I love to eat. I love to cook for people who love to eat. Beth doesn’t consider herself someone who loves to eat so I volunteer to prepare food for others, especially family.
I decided, during last week’s planning for our time in Effingham, that I wanted to cook for my family on Sunday. I immediately remembered a potato soup recipe I made the previous year that I bragged to my sister-in-law about so much we planned on having a cook-off while home home for Christmas. That never developed but I’m certain I would have won. The recipe has all the good things you shouldn’t put together. Whole milk. Cheddar Cheese. Bacon. Bacon fat. Butter. It’s rich and delicious.
I chose soup because it’s easy to make for a crowd. In the same spirit I decided to prepare it in a large Crock Pot. It took a long time for my butter to melt which concerned me. When I poured in the milk I knew it would never get up to temperature in time. I pulled out the trusty, huge, thin, aluminum pot. I migrated the roux to it, added the milk, and cranked the know to “Are you sure you want it this hot?”. I knew there was a risk of the base burning but I whisked virtuously and often… at first. I was aiming for a boil to ensure thickening and planned to put it back into the crock at that point. I added the cheese, bacon, and potatoes right before bubbled broke the surface. By this time I had stopped whisking and my Dad warned me that the pot was looking hot. I was confident that the only damage would be losing the soup stuck to the pot’s bottom.
I had never burned milk before so I wasn’t aware it falls into the same category as burnt hair.
I poured the contents into the crock and noticed the burnt layer of soup on the bottom of the pot that was thicker than I anticipated. A single potato cube fell to the counter during the transfer. I popped it in my mouth and was disgusted at the dark, burnt taste. I was stunned that it tasted so bad. The feeling of guilt, disappointment, & naivety rushed over me as I sheepishly announced the problem. My Dad was apprehensive that it matched my description. I urged him to try it and confirm that there was no way in hell it was edible. He did.
We immediately went to everyone’s Plan B and ordered pizza. Hilary arrived and was confused as to why Beth & I were putting our coats on. It didn’t take her long to accept the fate of the hyped soup when we explained that both Dad & I ruled it a failure.
I can think of two cooking failures in my life. Mom & I made blueberry pancakes in my early teens. I mistook or mis-measured the salt by a large degree. I remember us both being very disappointed. The second was was my attempt at perfecting General Tso’s orange chicken at home during the first year or two Beth & I lived together. I had some lovely fried chicken pieces and only had to sauce them. Similar to the pancakes, I misread or mis-measured the cornstarch and turned that delicious sauce into an inedible, hot jelly. Friends, you never want to use 1/4 cup of cornstarch to thicken anything besides a pool of gravy for roller coaster enthusiasts.
I also felt bad for the waste and disappointment I caused. I’ve made plenty of blunders in the kitchen but there is recovery and always a result. A complete failure feels so wasteful, especially at that qauntity. That package of bacon never got the nomming it deserved.
These failures don’t get me down like they used to. I know I will learn from them just as everyone learns from failure in their field or hobby. But I do hope my next failure is private.
