It doesn't take much to amuse me. Last night I made a soup that was half storebought, half my add-ins. I thought it was broccoli- cheese soup frozen in a bag I got from Chesapeake Traders, but it wasn't. What appeared to be broccoli at 32 degrees was really jalapenos. Cheese queso dip--about two pounds of it!
So as it thawed, I cooked broccoli, then combined the two in a big pot on the stove. Next I convinced myself we needed protein in it, and quickly cooked three chicken breasts (also from frozen state which, save for the label, could've passed for tilapia. Thank the Lord it wasn't.)
The cheese "soup" was still too spicy, so I added in a jar of alfredo sauce and a lot of shredded cheddar. Perfect! And all day a loaf of bread from frozen state was thawing and rising on the counter. (A loaf I bought for fifty cents at BB's!) There is nothing quite like fresh bread. As it rose, I even had the privilege of telling Joel, who was curious about what made bread rise, about sin and how it leavens the whole lump. Anyway, bread is very comforting on a cold, grey, rainy, child-sick-at-home-resting day.
When all was said and done, I had a soup we all wolfed down , alongside a fruit salad and warm, golden bread.
Ben asked, "What is this soup?"
I said, "Well, I call it--"
He interrupted, "Uh-oh, here comes something corny."
I started to chuckle. "I call it Broc, Squawk, and Block in a Crock."
I started to explain, "Broccoli, chicken--."
He groaned, "I get it, Mom. I get it. I don't need it spelled out."
I don't know why that cracks me up. It just does. Do I need a life or what?