It is true that the Duck Man has a pool. It is also true that I, in a very uncharacteristically brazen and aspirational way, declared to the Girl Whose Name Sounds Better Pronounced as an Indian Food Dish and to the Equestrian to Kids of the Stars at the Duck Man’s holiday party in December that we were going to be lounging by that pool (and grilling and drinking next to it) all summer. I imagined myself ten pounds lighter (with an extra couple inches attached to my legs for good measure) in a chic black bikini perched as the mistress of the pool, doling out invitations and kebabs with a royal, benevolent flourish.

I am an asshole. Once again, I have counted my chickens before they hatched into chicken nuggets and find myself somewhat short of a 3 piece order. I am hanging out in a loft/sauna with one pissed off cat instead of sunning myself next to a mid century oasis.

It is hotter than asphalt, so I am reminded of my great pool loss on this day, the day that it decided to be summer in SoCal. I guess I should count myself lucky; that I somehow managed to circumvent drawing out a “relationship” (if you could see me in person right now you’d witness the air quotes around that word, relationship) that probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway for a panoply of fantastic reasons, but that hasn’t in any way stopped me from bemoaning my pathetic, pool-less and utterly tragic fate.

Sometimes it’s crystal clear when things are done and there is no need to ask the Magic 8 Ball for its opinion. Things can be burnt, they can be dry, the timer in a turkey can pop up or he could have given someone else an engagement ring-- take your pick, they’re all excellent indicators. I like to think I don’t need to read tea leaves to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me by BANGING ME OVER THE HEAD. I like to think I can just use those god-given magical five senses to determine whether or not something is cooked.

I was hanging out in Gray Gardens, also known as my couch when it is strewn with potato chip bags, coffee cups and a sleeping cat between my knees, when I got a call from the Bossy Blonde in her “thinking chair” from the west village. I desperately need a thinking chair, by the way, and the conversation went a little something like this:

“So [Chef Kenobi] and I were having drinks last night and he asked me if you were obsessed with soup. He said, ‘what’s her deal? Is she going to make soup every Sunday for the rest of her life?’ And I wondered about that, too. I mean it’s not like you gave yourself a year deadline to cook through Mastering the Art of French Cooking and blog about it, thank God, since it’s already been done and Amy Adams was so annoying in it.”

red velvet ice cream sandwiches: don’t even pretend you don’t have pool envy

mulligatawny: when to say when

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.