I don’t know about you, but I get so excited about Independence Day Pumpkin Soup that I make enough to feed a small village.
I usually grow my own pumpkin for the occasion. “It’s not pumpkin. It’s squash, you moron!” someone gently pointed out recently.
Thank you much. I’ll keep that in mind.
Anyway, I wake up Thanksgiving-Turkey early to concoct my Pumpkin Soup. The last thing I would want is to run out, when that lucky 3 thousandth guest arrives.
By the time I remember that the small village is actually 3 thousand miles away in beloved Haïti, I have to face the perennial dilemma: What can I possibly do with a vat of left-over soup?
For many days afterwards, the soup is resuscitated the way certain families defibrillate Thanksgiving birds: think turkey sandwiches, turkey casseroles, turkey and eggs–yum! Turkey cookies–double yum! This year’s pumpkin soup’s unmistakable aroma filled our house, while outside worlds congealed under that Polar Vortex thing. How grateful my family was!
I don’t have a problem ushering old turkey bones to a trash bin. Throwing out pumpkin soup, however, is another matter. My conscience takes every opportunity to remind me that pushing pumpkin soup down the food disposal is tantamount to dumping my heritage. Besides, what is so wrong with freezer-burnt soup carefully thawed—say, three or four weeks post Independence Day?
I say “Bon Appétit,” while presenting a steaming bowl to my American husband. It hasn’t even been two weeks since the soup sat on its first fire. The man’s eyes grow wide with what I can only describe as panic. “Do we have anything , anything else to eat in this whole-entire house, honey?”
“Sure, sweetheart! There’s a nice divorce lawyer in the neighborhood; I’m dialing his number as we speak. I’m confident he has a briefcase full of suggestions.”
