I don’t write often about my offspring (their lives; their choice if it gets plastered over the web) but one, the younger one, (let’s call him Dreamer) has provoked some thinking.
I served up an interesting dinner the other night. (No photos. It just wouldn’t pass the visual test.)
Dreamer said, “This looks like all the dinners we had this week.”
“Well spotted. It is.”
Rice, vegetable and chick pea curry, a sort of boiled chicken and veg stew thing. Mmm, appetising.
The chicken thing came from the chicken soup I had made the day before. I scooped out the chicken and veggies, leaving the broth for my lunch.
While Mr S and I tucked into the dinner with gusto, Dreamer pushed his fork around his bowl.
Dreamer looked up and made a pronouncement.
“Brother and I came to a ruling last night at the pub. Soup is not dinner. And we we won’t be having it for dinner anymore.”
Laughter from Mr S and me. Given the rarity of cooking by Dreamer and Brother, their votes have little chance of being acted upon by this administration.
I really love homemade chicken soup. I thought it was complicated. Turns out it is easy. Mr S and I really enjoyed it this week. Served with thick slices of a dense sour dough. I love my pumpkin soup even more. Mr S loves his ham and split pea soup and his seafood chowder.
All great winter fare.
But is it dinner? A meal on its own? Or must soup come with a main course?
What do you think?
lucinda sans 