The Soup

We are some very picky eaters around here. And by we, I mean Monkey Weasel, Smallest Weasel and I. There are some things we just won't can't eat. I don't mean that in a, "I don't like that, I want something else" spoiled kind of way. I mean a "I am perfectly content to go hungry, can't get that over my gums" kind of way. The rule of "When they get hungry enough, they'll eat it" does not apply here. If stranded on an island with nothing but bugs to eat, we would starve to death. We would beg to vote ourselves off Survivor. It's not that we won't try new things, it's that some foods will make us gag at the mere thought of them. Mr. Weasel on the other hand is a human garbage disposal. I'm not certain he has ever found a food that he would refuse to eat. He is unable to push past hunger pains. Eldest Weasel and Boy Weasel can eat just about anything that is placed in front of them. Although Boy Weasel will keep his portion small.

Keeping that in mind, Mr. Weasel decided to dabble in the kitchen yesterday and make a new Potato Cheese Soup recipe for a cheap and yummy dinner. He ran the recipe past me for inspection. I found nothing offensive (carrots, leeks, potato, beef stock, cheese) and thought it sounded kind of good. We could serve it with french bread and have a lovely meal. Or so I thought.

The aroma was wonderful as it simmered away stove top. Mr. Weasel had everything firmly under control, including a 'new to him' technique of using a hand blender to puree things up a bit. Soon he rang the dinner bell and proudly presented us with his culinary piece de resistance.

There were *crickets*.
Then came *snickers*.
And polite smiles, while holding back belly laughs.
Mr. Weasel looked distressed and unamused.
The rest of us held it together as much as we could as I said grace and concluded with "And thank you God for Mr. Weasel and this soup for us to enjoy". Spontaneous laughter and hilarity ensued. Mr. Weasel didn't laugh.

We tried to be good. We tried to be gracious. We tried to eat it. None of these efforts worked. We were silently jealous of Monkey Weasel who was eating dinner at a friends house. Spoons were swirled around bowls and tentative tastes were taken. The aesthetics of the soup made me think of the last time I needed Immodium. I reached for the bread. I hoped that it would help to get some soup down. I couldn't look at it as I tasted it, it would have never gone in. I sipped it off the spoon into the side of my mouth. The texture was exactly what I had expected. I forced my self to swallow and reached for more bread. Boy Weasel asked me "does the bread really help or are you just stalling?". More laughter. Everyone, sans Mr. Weasel, reached for bread.

Mr. Weasel asked us to save some bread for Monkey Weasel (the pickiest eater of them all). Because she would want to try his soup when she comes home. Riotous laugher broke out. Spontaneous, uncontrollable giggling. It was like the best joke ever told. He should go into stand-up. Only he thought he was being serious. We tried to be good again.

Eldest tried to bribe Smallest Weasel with "Take a few bites and I will give you a piece of gum after dinner". Smallest Weasel opened wide and Eldest fed her a spoonful of Dad's delicacy. She swallowed, made a face and immediately started up-chucking at the table. More laughter as we check to see if she's okay. Mr. Weasel is now angry and deflated and no one else can keep a straight face. Thanks to Smallest's stomache's immediate ejection of dinner, all others were excused from the table. Eldest Weasel found the turn of events so amusing she was put in charge of cleaning up. She became entirely grossed out and refused to clean up the vomit on the table, until I informed her that "the vomit all hit the floor, that's spilled soup on the table". More laughter ensued. In her defense, the similarities were astounding.

And that is why tonight I am making meatball sandwiches.