Mmm-Mmm Yuck

I swore I would never do it again. I made vows to God, Buddah, Mohammed and on the head of my firstborn child. But there I was last night, forcing canned soup down my throat. Must’ve been left over from the Y2K scare some 9 years ago. Please don’t fault me, it was the last thing in my food pantry.

I pull open the can and I remember all over again why I can’t stand canned soup. The aroma hits harder and harder as more of it plops out of the can. This is no easy pour- I’m jumping up and down to free the remainder of preserved beans trapped in the aluminum.

It’s really a shame that I am complaining about food intended for the convenience of the masses and that helped to bring comfort to soldiers. Soldiers, who fought to preserve my freedom. Regardless, this preserved food brings about an unfortunate circumstance as olfaction is no longer a gift but a curse. As all sorts of disgusting sounds (hearing, also made a curse) emerge from the escaping lentil bean mass, I forget the benefits the sense of smell allows- walking down a flower studded avenue in Hawaii, baby powder, new car scent, the smell of a new book. Because I have two nostrils and a pot of cold lumpy soup underneath them, all I can remember is the foulness that is opportune when you are blessed to have a functioning sense of smell - the street meats of various cities, the donkey shit gracing the trails of the Grand Canyon in August, road kill. And last but not least, canned lentil soup.

I’ve noticed that all canned soup has the same smell, it doesn’t matter the flavor. And the taste? All cans might as well read ‘Sodium’ in a beautiful script typeface where the flavor should be. My 5-star cuisine happened to be lentil, but it could’ve very well been chicken soup or clam chowder. I think they all taste the same anyways.

I dunno, the thought of canned beans bothers me enough- but canned meat? Canned seafood? Oh boy. But I guess we all do desperate things when we are hungry.

Not a very good start to my week.

And.

It’s freezing out. I wish I could wish that I had a cup of steaming hot soup, hot enough to melt a little frozen snowboy into the lad he rightly deserves to be. But I can’t. I have it right in front of me and I’d almost rather be a snowperson right now so my tastebuds would be frozen and all food would taste like nothing. A carrot is probably lacking too when it comes to sense of smell. Another plus.

I could list the pros of life as a snowperson forever, or, I could get off my ass and go food shopping.