You may recall that I'm skipping soups that come in aseptic containers and endeavoring to cook my school lunches myself. Today I made a soup -- a real soup, from a reputable cookbook, not some feeble effort of my own -- and remembered why I don't cook. Granted I had to leave out the soy sauce because I can't do soy. And the cooking sherry. I don't exactly know what cooking sherry is, but we surely don't have any, so I threw in a little red wine instead. The finished soup, though it had lovely barley and mushrooms in it, was bland. I added some extra salt and butter, but to little avail. So then I opened a can of black beans and dumped them in, and now I have a high-protein version of the original that still looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, with chunky bits.
Meanwhile, we realized that not only our peanut butter jar but also our jam jars come with little plastic rings of purity around them. I don't know what we will do. We might prevail upon our friend Melissa, a prodigious homemade jam-maker, to see us through the year. Either that or reconsider the Parameters. This much I know: without jam, Rick will perish. Jam is one of the Four Food Groups (the others being mustard, cookies, and barbecue sauce -- all with similar attendant problems.)
And I found myself skewered on the horns of a dilemma Saturday. I attended an all-day workshop for which I had paid a fee that included the cost of a "sack lunch." But in that sack, of course, was a sandwich wrapped in plastic film and a salad in a plastic clamshell. I'd already bought it; no plastic would be spared if I were to turn it down (and I'd have been useless for the second half of the workshop.) But now I know I have to think ahead about things like that, and probably make phone calls and ask for special exceptions to be made on my funny little experimental behalf.
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