Mi Piel

I had such high hopes for you, my dear Wolfgang. I whispered my fantasy to you in the soup aisle, of a heat and eat butternut squash soup that was balanced and robust, one that rivaled my own homemade soup in flavor and texture. I confided in you that I was having surgery, and wouldn't be feeling up to making mine, and humbly requested your culinary expertise. A tall order, I know, but I thought if anyone was up to the task, it would be you. After all, you'd already won me over with your Roasted Red Pepper with Tomato, and I had all the faith in the world in your canned soup knowhow. You smiled at me coyly from the label, touting your creamy butternut squash soup, as if to say, "Pick me! I'm delicious and low calorie, and you'll never regret it!" I confessed that I was nervous, that my heart had been broken before, most recently by an organic foods company with a great photographer and a product that tasted like liquid cardboard. You eased my fears with your printed celebrity chef guile, and before I knew what was happening, the Creamy Butternut Squash was in my cart, nestled comfortably next to a head of cauliflower and a quart of 2% milk. My head said no, but my stomach screamed, "Yes!! Surely, this is the one!" You smiled confidently at me from the grocery bag on the way home, and I shrieked in delight at the thought of my own private Spago.

I held off as long as I could, used almost every other soup in my pantry, until it was your turn, and giddy hands removed you from your shelf. I trembled with excitement as I reached for the can opener, and my heart twittered and danced as I gently removed your lid. "Funiculi, Funicula" played as I helped you from your aluminum prison into my pan, noting with slight disapproval that you had the pallor of one with jaundice. I though to myself, "Ah well, not to worry - it is canned, right?" I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt, to allow you to become thoroughly heated before I passed judgement by administering the all important taste test. It seemed like hours passed as I waited for you to warm up, stirring faithfully with my favorite wooden spoon. Finally, a light veil of steam shrouded my spoon, and I knew it was time.
I lifted the spoon solemnly to my mouth, fully prepared to savor the flavor.

I think you know what happens next, Mr. Puck.

The flavor never came. Your Creamy Butternut Squash was neither creamy or butternutty. You should have named it Cream of Baby Vomit. I trusted you, Wolfgang.

Your vile trickery complete, I found myself empty - and hungry, so I buried my sorrows in "Pie Jesu" and a bowl of Campbell's Broccoli and Cheese.

You were just like the rest of them, and you broke my heart. I even tried to save you, a pinch of this, a splash of that - to no avail. I guess my fantasy of a delicious premade butternut squash soup is just that... a fantasy.





--CP