Souper Bowl Sunday

 

Here it is once again, the biggest Sunday of the football year. Not being a football fan, it leaves me apathetic to say the least. Perhaps bored would be a better description—or maybe a bit angry at the extravagance of a sporting event.

I remember several years ago when PBS had Souper Bowl programming. I think it was a series of programs devoted to soup in a play on words—and perhaps a reaction to all the junk food that is eaten at watch parties. Which reminds me—did everyone see that because of drug cartel violence, the US cut off all import of avocados from Mexico as of last night. On the eve of the biggest avocado sale day of the year, because everyone is making guacamole.

I discovered tonight that there is an organization that shares my concern it should be turned to a better cause. Project Care sponsors the Souper Bowl of Caring, couched in football terms for church groups, youth ministries, any kind of non-profit group. First down, they say, is to organize your team. Second down: what do you want—food donations? Cash donations? They talk about virtual food shopping, fundraising, food drives, and other ways to “make a touchdown.” Third down is to register your project with them and fourth to use their resources. I have no idea about the legitimacy of this program, but I would like to believe in them. It’s a neat idea.

On the other hand, it sounds like a whole lot of work, and I had my hands full today just making a pot of chicken soup. The recipe calls it crack chicken soup. It has all the things you’d expect—onion, carrot, celery, chicken, and broth (I had two cups of really good homemade broth in the freezer). But then it has the unexpected—a packet of ranch dressing mix, a can of cream of chicken soup, half and half, a half-pound of spaghetti, grated cheddar. Two friends came to share it with me, and if I do say so, it was excellent. One friend brought delicious cornbread, and so we feasted. A problem with pasta in soup—it tends to soak up all the liquid. The soup was thick tonight; by tomorrow, I imagine I’ll have to add more broth to the leftovers. Easily done.

The soup and the company soothed me at the end of a difficult day in which, ultimately, I proved myself a bad doggie mother. There’s a doggie devil that occasionally takes over Sophie, especially in the early morning. When she goes out for that morning pee, she runs madly from one end of the yard to the other, chasing squirrels, barking, squeaking in excitement. When she’s in that zone, I might as well talk to myself. I bundle up, go out with leash (to fool her into thinking she’s getting a trip) and cheese, her usual treat. I call, beg, plead, and cajole. She doesn’t even look at me.

This morning, after an hour, Jordan, who likes to sleep late on weekends, came out and went after Soph—something I can’t do when she’s back in the bushes. Jordan’s concern was that running on the ground cover and gravel in a couple of small beds, tears up Sophie’s feet. She finally brought Soph inside, but my sweet dog was not happy about it. She barked at me continually, until I went from scolding to yelling. I was not going to let her out to repeat that performance. About noon, when Jordan came to bring me something, Sophie slipped out and took the longest pee ever. Poor thing—she’d just been trying to tell me she needed to pee. She promptly went to her crate and fell asleep, either out of exhaustion or relief about the peeing—or resentment of me. We did not speak until suppertime.

But when Renee and Jean arrived, she got lots of love to make up for her cruel mistreatment earlier in the day. As of this writing, I think we’re friends again. This morning was the second in a week in which she got in that wild zone, so I’m a bit apprehensive about tomorrow. And, honest, I don’t want to get up at seven in the morning. I’m retired, after all.

It's a new week, and the world is getting back to normal. I hope everyone has a good week.