I burned soup.
How in the hell can someone burn soup?
I made chili Monday because, well, it was chilly outside. And since I did NOTHING but sit at my computer after I did wound care on ONE patient on Tuesday, I thought I would make something even warmer and yummier than Monday night.
So I scoured my pantry and found taco seasoning, a can of corn, a can of ranch-style beans, and a can of green chillies. I added the leftover chili meat and 17 gallons(approx) of water, and turned on the fire. (That's chef lingo: fire.)
Then I sat down with my computer. Soon the room was filled with the wonderful aroma of spicy tortilla soup. I could hear the bubbling of the soup simmering on the stove and I inwardly patted myself on the back for being so dern domestic. Soon the botched cinnamon rolls would be a distant memory. Soon I would be hailed as Domestic Goddess Extraordinaire and have my own cooking show. What would I wear? How should I do my hair?
Then the sound of simmering got louder and louder, reminding me that indeed my family would be so impressed to walk into the house with supper ready to be consumed. Then it hit me. You probably shouldn't hear your soup cooking.
Upon closer inspection, which required me getting off my laurels, I see meat in the pan. So with cat-like reflexes, I filled the pan with water and stirred.
And sort of scraped a little.
And up floated little black pieces that I could only assume were the charred remains of the chili that had the unfortunate luck of being on the BOTTOM.
What would Paula do in this situation? Martha and Rachel would fix this how?
So I did what every good connoisseur of fine delicacies would do.
I told the family we were eating Blackened Tortilla Soup. Sold at only the finest restaurants for $75 a bowl. Cheese and Chips sold separately.
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