Kids go through phases. It’s as certain as death and taxes–that, and the phases can be somewhat unusual. I fell under this category when I embraced a cooking obsession–at fourteen.

At the time that this occurred my family was living in England. I’d suffered a fainting episode at school which prompted me to invest in healthy eating and exercise, sparking a desire to cook for myself. This prompted my first attempt which I penned in poem (see First Cooking Disaster) and involved adding way to much salt. My second attempt was soup. Onion Soup.

Everybody knows that onions make you cry. In spite of that, I went ahead with the recipe and bought–among other things–twelve onions which I peeled and cut on my own. Or tried to. Around the second onion, my eyes started to sting. The fourth produced tears. By the time I’d slogged to the eight offender I was legally blind. I got the message and let my mom finish the dicing.

I recovered in time to finish the soup under my mother’s guidance in addition to the bread slices that went with it. We get it on the table and served to the various members of my family only to have very little of it eaten. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m a bad cook. Maybe onion soup isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Either way, it tasted awful and everyone–me included–chowed down on the bread instead.

My ‘cooking phase’ passed a long time ago and I don’t cook much these days–though not from lack of talent. That’ll change sooner or later and when it does, I think that I’ll be leaving onion soup off of the menu–permanently.


Disclaimer: I do not own the imagery used in this blog post and have no artistic claim to it.


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