In preparation for Thanksgiving, I tried out a new soup recipe.  I also upped my Xanax…but that’s a story for another day. 

The recipe was for Curried Roasted Butternut Squash Bisque with Lump Crabmeat and Pomegranates. Pretty ambitious, eh?  No bisque without risk, I always say.  [I actually never say that; it must be the Xanax talking.] 

How did it come out?  Well, let me speak directly.  

Directly to the soup, that is.

FUCK YOU, SOUP.  FUCK YOU!!!

I shopped the entire island of Manhattan in search of pumpkin seed oil because that’s what you specified. I did not know, nor could I have imagined, the cost of pumpkin seed oil.  But because I know it now I’ve added it to the list of belongings I should save in a house fire.  I did everything you wanted: I roasted and peeled and grated.  And that was just the skin of my fingers.  I excavated pomegranate seeds and picked cartilage from crabmeat for hours. I learned to use an immersion blender. And I learned to never ever take an immersion blender out of a deep bowl of orange liquid while the motor is running. 

I did it for you, horrible soup.  I did all that and more because I believed that your velvety orange sumptuousness and pumpkin seed oil swirl were the gateways to the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving I envisioned. You were to be my immunity from barbs passed around the table like over-salted stuffing.  You were my ticket to absolution from family strife and criticism. How could eyebrow-raising relatives scrutinize my ill-mannered children or pre-dinner drinking when such a soup waited in the pre-heated terrines you so haughtily demanded?  

I followed your every direction to the letter. And yet, you are bland.  You are unworthy of the time invested, especially after the immersion blender mishap that turned my kitchen into an orange crime scene. When I asked Siri how to get butternut squash spatter off the ceiling, she just sighed and told me I was an idiot.  

I had high hopes for you, soup, and the glory you’d bestow on my Thanksgiving table. Somehow I thought you’d elevate my family just enough for me to let my guard down.  A dinner where we’d carve out any judgment, pass on politics, and stuff our collective impulse to revisit family wounds.  Foolish me, for placing that much faith in bisque.   

And so, we will go soupless this year. We will have the same menu we always do.  There will be fighting and drinking.  There will be too much eating and drinking. And too much drinking.  But no matter.  I will be happy to have my family together and happy when they leave.  You didn’t live up to your promise, soup. But my family will.  They wouldn’t be them if I didn’t hear about how there weren’t enough hand towels in the bathroom or how my kids never put napkins on their laps or why I didn't wear the brooch they bought me for my birthday or if that's my fourth glass of wine.  So, bring it on, family, and not to worry, I’ve got you and this Thanksgiving thing covered. From Butternut Whatever soup... to nuts.