Sep 5, 2009

If I Had A...

Recently, I have joined a blog community that works to unite viewers with weekly blogs based around a central topic. I consider this to be my debut into group and I look forward to doing it more often.
This week's topic:
"If I woke up tomorrow and I had a bucket of _____, I would..."
And the blank is to be filled by a magic word, which was chosen to be soup.


There are a lot of things to consider when obtaining a bucket of soup. For one, you have to consider the age of the soup and how long it has been exposed to outer environment. Also, does the bucket itself have holes in it? Does it have a lid?
To save hassle, I will go for the simplest form of soup, which will be a solid metal bucket with a handle bar, but no lid. The soup will be a fresh, hot batch of tortilla soup as I am sure I make more friends with chips in their soup, not on their shoulder.
And when I wake up to the wonderful smell of tortilla soup, I am surprised to see this bucket, sitting against the wall across the way in the corner. Like science fiction, some things are better left not exploring mythology. So, I will just take it for granted.
But where did the soup come from? Why is it hot? Wouldn't the metal bucket attract the heat and make it impossible to pick up unless someone was wearing gloves...

If I woke up with a bucket of tortilla soup, I would be confused but act quickly. Even though the weather is hot, the soup will not be for long. I either must consume it or contain it for later use.
For this post, I shall choose consume.

Now, it's hard to consume soup right after you wake up. Soup is more of a lunch meal in my life, so there is a possibility of growing sick just because I had it for breakfast.
It's then you consider alternatives of mixing it in with breakfast. Should I do tortilla soup-flavored Cheerios? My mother used to give me orange juice-flavored cereal, but no concoction this bizarre. If I were to try this, I bet the Cheerios would melt and make it mushy, substituting more for crackers than a balanced meal.
But talking about this soup just makes me hungry. My cats have caught on to the smell and have began edging their way into my room. Competition for the soup has grown to an inter-species battle and in my relaxed position on my bed, the cats have an easy advantage of getting to the soup.
And then I realize the fickle nature of the animals. All I have to do is distract them and they will run away. By my bedside is some loose change. Maybe the clanging noise of a couple pennies and golden dollars will buy me some time.
And the soup progressively gets colder as I sit in my bed, throwing money at the cats. It's proven to draw them off for enough time for me to at least get up and observe the soup.
But then I realized that I didn't have a spoon in my room to eat it with. If I ran to the kitchen, the cats could easily sneak back in and win. As I touch the handle bar, the heat rises and the situation gets more awkward. I decide to stand around the soup, guarding it while I come up with options.
I finally reach the conclusion of picking it up wrapped in my blankets. While the container is really heavy and the heat pokes through a little bit, I could now move it to the kitchen without problems.
I placed it onto the counter and looked for a spoon to taste it. I quickly found one and scooped up the first taste of the day. While it had gone cold, it hadn't entirely lost flavor yet, and I had a few more before I looked at the bucket and began to figure out how to store it. I was not hungry enough to finish it all at once.
But what to do with a bucket of soup that could easily go sour if I stared at it too long?
Upon the door came a knock, and I went to answer it, leaving the soup unguarded, trusting my cats to be scared of heights. At the door was a door-to-door salesman, selling insurance for something. I was preoccupied, so the details he gave me were quickly washed away. All I know was, I needed to do something with that soup before much else happened.
Back in the kitchen, I kept looking at it with the most distraught thoughts possible. I was beginning to not want it. Not because I hated tortilla soup, but I hated pointless dilemmas that ate up my morning.
Then I realized the truth. I wasn't eating up the soup, I was eating up my morning. It was in bad tastes, but instead of sharing it with my cats, I had hogged it like a greedy pig.
I decided to put a couple containers aside for myself and give it away. Wrapped in my blanket, I carried it to my front porch and placed the bucket by the door with small plastic bowls scattered around for their consumption.
When I collected the bowls, I was pleased to see that the entire soup was gone. There were small fragments of tortillas left in it, but for the most part, the cats looked pleased.
While it wouldn't be another few days, I began to get the neighborhood cats in my yard, almost trying to interrogate for more leftovers. All I could do was turn them away, telling them that I didn't have soup, nor did I know where it came from.
Around the same time, I also decided to wash the bucket out with the hose (why I waited that long, I will never know), but on the bottom I found a piece of paper.
It was a thank you present from the door-to-door salesman to my mother. He knew she liked bizarre recipes and figured she could mix tortilla soup into our diet somehow. He had stopped by previously to let me know that we had been approved for the insurance thing and a gift was waiting inside for me.
And my mother in all of this? Well, she was furious and made me buy her replacement soup (and trust me, fresh tortilla soup is hard to come by).

At this point I learned the value of sharing with others and learning to listen. Because while it doesn't always taste good, it usually makes life a lot easier in the long run.

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