Start the day before by hitchhiking to town, 40 km south, to get groceries or wheedle a ride from the neighbors. Amuse their precocious six year old in the backseat with rock paper scissors. At the supermarket, act alien to modern society and stare at the the produce sprinklers with deep puzzlement and fear. Shudder in disgust to imported kale. Find BRAGG. There is no soup without Bragg. Tell the cashier about the great snow boots you're wearing. Refuse any bags. Spend ten minutes by the bottled water stuffing the groceries into your mountain hikers' backpack with ergonomic precision. Hike along the beach for forty minutes, in those too-great snowboots, to the hitchhiking spot while praying to get a decent ride back home. At the spot, another neighbor almost runs you over in her jeep. Scream in mirth all the way home from this miraculous blessing of a ride.
The day of the soup.
Chop half an onion. Fry in grapeseed oil. That's the cheapest of the fancy oils. And it's not the rapeseed oil kind. Grapeseed. Use Bragg with the relish of Martha Stewart dousing her cooking in red wine. Toss in a gallon of water. Have mind short circuit from this point on and run on hunger and instinct. Chop carrots.. no.. peel beet.. no.. squash! damn the squash! Hack at the spaghetti squash with several knives until the carved pieces are flat enough to fit into a pot. Steam squash chunks. Chop a potato, handling the fish-filet knife with the finesse of a thumb-less toddler. Wonder if you're really losing it when most of the potato bits free-fall to the ground. Toss them in, and some yam. Gotta have the yam. Floor-yam that is. Hike the temp to high and spice up the soup's life with dry dill weed and turmeric, the only two spices (/grass bits) you're really comfortable using in cooking. Read more »