After last night's soup stock disaster, I wasn't sure it would work out. I left work and went straight to the store. I got home an hour later with a five pound boneless ham (ever hopeful), a better masher for the beans, and a serious scrub brush.
Between the scrub brush, a rough sponge, and about a cup of baking soda as an abrasive, the 16 quart stainless steel stock pot nearly ruined by the catastrophe that still laces the air of my apartment with the lingering oder of burnt beans, rose from the literal ashes and now shines *almost* like new.
I boiled up that ham, mashed those beans, added the already cooked venison sausage bits, and after two hours of simmering, mashed up the beans and ham cubes some more (I really like my masher, it gets the grrrs out). I skim it every so often as it cools, and I've already had my first bowl. It's delicious and rich and warm and filling. My stomach feels hugged. I am now faced with the ubiquitous soup quandry of, "NOW what do I do with 6 to 8 quarts of soup?"
It's a comfortable sort of evening. I've been trying so hard to get to a better place in my life that I have probably missed numerous opportunities to make *this* a better place (though to be fair, I've siezed a fair number as well). A few days ago I felt like Iwas in a circling eddy current I couldn't get out of. Now I feel like maybe I've found a sheltered cove to drowse and dream in. A time to stop, to sit down in this little furrow with my back to a bank of tilled earth, with the honey smell of summer grasses and the scent of fresh moist soil in my mind. I have sown. I will harvest. Now is a time of waiting. A time of rest. And after I reap the bounty of my patience and peace...
I'll make more soup.