A Love Or Hate

I think the world should be divided into two groups

Those who enjoy soup, and the remaining few who have rarely imbibed a drop of the liquid.

The topic should also be a determining factor before marriage.

I know because my husband and I fell into the two distinctively opposing camps.

He grew up apparently feasting on soup three times a day.

Me? I never opened my dainty rosebud mouth for a drop of what I considered an unpaletable liquid.

Obviously, My Mother was aware of Campbell’s, but she studiously avoided the aisle of the neighborhood A&P store where the renowned red and white cans were stacked. I know they never entered our home nor did we treasure a copy of the famed Andy Warhol picture.

I just assumed the rest of the world shared our family’s (yes admittedly,) prejudice against the broths of the world.

Then still in the early stages of romance, I noticed the word soup was uttered more and more by my new husband.

It started slowly, but the cadence became increasingly nostalgic especially after I had served chicken or he quietly watched me in the throes of discarding a ham bone.

I knew he loved me because he never really complained, but sometimes seemed a tad wistful as the bones descended into the garbage.

One memorable Thanksgiving, I decided to give the love of my life an early Christmas gift. Without saying a word I took the remnants of the turkey carcass and with the help of a Good Housekeeping magazine combined all the vital ingredients into a large pot that simmered throughout the day.

The interior of our little white cape cod house literally reeked of soup; not necessarily good soup, but a reasonable facsimile. I would like to say I was eagerly anticipating tasting the nectar, but that would be an untruth.

I only wanted to see the joy on my beloved’s face when I served it after long years of abstinence.

I still recall hearing the front door open, and seeing him enter the kitchen at the precise moment I carefully poured the liquid into an orange plastic colander in the sink.

Yes, I had not read the last paragraph of the recipe telling the novice cook to first place the colander into an empty bowl. My gallon gift of homemade turkey soup swirled rapidly down the drain, as the expression on my husband’s face defied description.

Shortly afterwards, despite my Mother’s precise tutoring, I began to shop carefully each week for an assortment of the famed red and white cans known as Campbells Soup.

And in our now happy home the subject was never discussed again.