Originally published in The Clifton Courier, July 18, 2018

I know, I know, it’s another recipe.

But I didn’t do much over the weekend and I’ve already written about my love of WD40, so this is all I have.

And it’s not even a recipe for something exciting like ginger beer cake (that fact that I call a soft drink inspired cake “exciting” might give you some insight into who I am as a person… in case this constant tirade of over-sharing via this column hasn’t already made that pretty clear).

It’s just a pumpkin soup.

Sure, it’s not the worst thing you could put in your mouth* and its warm, soupiness means it’s as comforting as receiving a text that says “training is cancelled” on a cold winter’s night, but it’s nothing special.

* A cheeky dirty joke for anyone who was looking for it…

It’s what I would describe as “meh”, which is best animated with a shoulder shrug and a bored facial expression.

You can make this soup for yourself if you like, but after having a bowl full of it at my desk* on Monday afternoon, I’d suggest jazzing it up a bit. Because right now I’d equate it with a lukewarm mug of tea, and there are few things as demoralising as an underwhelming tea.

* Someone called that “al desko” the other day it both made me laugh and made me incredibly depressed.

And with that enthusiastic introduction: please, trudge along beside me on a dull culinary journey to souptown.

Step 1: Slice and dice a large onion. If you’re anything like me, you’ll somehow manage to cut it in a way that releases the highest concentration of onion gas into the air, making you cry like you do when Forrest Gump talks to Jenny’s grave at the end of the movie. Don’t fight these tears, let them come. Let the onion make you feel things another human being couldn’t.

Step 2: Dice five rindless bacon rashers, eating about half a rasher as you go because you’re hungry for more than just food, and bacon is all you have.

Step 3: Chuck into a large, deep pot that looks like it could be used by a modern-day witch for making potions. Add a good sloshing of oil and an extremely generous tablespoon of butter.

Step 4: Sauté over a low to medium heat until you’re hit, once again, in the face with by smell of onion.

Step 5: While you’re sautéing (yes, you’re sautéing like the fancy, E-with-the-line-thing-above-it-using person that you are), peel and chop a quarter of a jap pumpkin. Cut the pumpkin down into tiny cubes, partly because they cook faster, partly because there’s something frighteningly cathartic about manically cutting things into pieces.

Step 6: Throw pumpkin into the pot, cover with a lid and turn up the heat to roughly halfway on the stovetop dial.

Step 7: Make yourself a cup of tea, but make sure has enough time to steep before you go adding the milk. If you’re in a position where you’re actually following my recipe, I feel you probably need a stiff cuppa. Make that cuppa a hug in a mug, sweetheart.

Step 8: Give the pot a stir after about 10 minutes.

Step 9: Keep stirring every few minutes until the cubes are soft enough for a butter knife to easily stab through.

Step 10: Carefully tip this into a blender or food processor, making sure not to splash that old, stained sloppy Joe you’re probably wearing.

Step 11: Slop in a few spoonfuls of Greek yogurt and blend.

Step 12: Feel guilty that you’re probably not eating enough greens, deciding to hide said greens in your soup so you don’t notice you’re eating them, like a real grown up. I chucked in a thawed packet of frozen kale, but anything greenish and vaguely leafy will probably alleviate the guilt – even if it’s just a token amount.

Step 13: Blend again, until you have something that looks like someone vomited after eating a Chiko Roll… with a side salad.

Step 14: Apathetically pour the slurry into lunch containers. Groan as you realise you’re going to be eating this for at least four lunches in the coming days.* Realise how incredibly dull your lunch breaks will be. Remember that you’re making lunches to save money so you can continue living the life to which you become accustomed. Wonder if the life to which you’ve become accustomed is even worth it. Question your priorities in life. Recoil at your poor decisions. Grimace to your very core.

* The instructions following the asterisk were added for online publication and were not present in the print version. Some people in Clifton worry about me enough because of what I write in that paper, I don’t want to concern them further with an extra thick dollop of brutal honesty. 

Step 15: Despite this bleak weekday lunch sentence, cherish the feeling that you at least made lunch for yourself. You did it. Even if your soup isn’t a winner, you sure are.

Bonus step: Jazz it up. Tear in some thigh meat from a hot chook. Dip crispy shards of bacon into it. Drink it from a margarita glass with the rim dusted with shaved parmesan and Cheezel dust. Do what you must to get through the week.