Bologna Soup and Hot pink Snow Suits

I was recently told that my first attempt at making something "real" in the kitchen came when I was about 8. My friend Kari and I decided that we were going to make soup. Nothing fancy or complicated, but rather, something simple and elegant. A soup to impress our parents, a culinary masterpiece that would leave an impression on the palettes of those who tasted it. Our method was simple. A) Pour water into pot, B) Turn on stove, C) take pieces of lunch meet, tear them and add them to the water and finally D) stir and serve. Our choice of meat was bologna, torn into huge pieces that floated near the surface. It was a proud moment for Kari and I. We served it to her parents, who, graciously ate our bologna flavoured water, and even threw in a few sound affects to appease us and our efforts. I guess you've gotta start somewhere.

Kari and I have been friends since we were both 6 months old. Our parents had put us in the same daycare and as luck would have it, we both showed up one day wearing the same snowsuit. This was around 1983/1984, so think hot pink. It was instant friendship after that. First for our parents, then us, and then our younger brothers. We enjoyed school, road trips and extra-circular activities together. Including standing on the street corner, repeatedly singing the first two lines of "Can't Touch This" (but that story is for another time).

In the 25 years that I have know Kari, we've been through it all. We joke that one day we will be sitting in our rocking chairs at the old folks home, reminiscing about the time we made her mother suffer for 8 hours on a road trip while we sang the same Little Mermaid song at the top of our lungs (again, another story for another time!)

Last night, Kari and I got together for some dinner, catch up and a marathon baking session: Banana bread, cookies and almond rocha. Not bad for a Monday night. Everything tasted amazing, and instead of using bologna as our main ingredient, we used butter. We're improving. Visible progress!

I recently read a quote from Julia Child about cooking that I thought was so perfect. In her book "My Life in France" she talks about making lunch for her friend. "We at the lunch with painful politeness and voided discussing its taste. I made sure not to apologize for it. This is a rule of mine. I don't believe in twistings yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one's hostess starts in with self-deprecations such as "Oh, I don't know how to cook..." or "Poor little me..." or "This may taste aweful..." it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether or not it is. Besides, such admissions only draw attention to one's shortcomings...Usually one's cooking is better than one things it is, and if the food truely is vile, as my ersatz eggs Florentine surely were, then the cook must simple grit her teeth and beat it with a smile - and learn from her mistakes."

Simple cooking isn't hard. It's a matter of starting somewhere - even if it is (bologna flavour) soup. And for the record, should you stop by for dinner and I decided to serve you bologna soup, I'm not apologizing.