Send in the soups

Editor's note:

Before publication, this essay met mealy-mouthed criticism from many would-be-readers and many never-readers, prompting a re-review of the piece and reframing of the painstaking editing process. God hasn’t been involved in picking and choosing subjects in a while and frankly, it shows. The essay fell quite short of my standards, which are already unbelievably low. Like anything not vetted by a judicious panel of deeply wise censors, this essay should not have been published. 

The basic argument advanced in it – however objectionable people may find eating hot soup on a hot day – represent a newsworthy part of the current debate. The editing process was rushed and flawed, commencing in the backseat of a convertible (yes, the top was down and the wind was blasting). The essay needed and still needs further revisions – and plunking a single ice cube in a bowl of soup doesn’t cut it. 

For example, the published piece presents as facts assertions about the role of crackers in “tempering the spiciness of chili”; in fact, this allegation is dubious at best, and dangerous at worst, considering the sodium content of your average saltine. The assertion that “Hank Williams didn’t know the difference between gumbo and jambalaya” should have been challenged. The essay also includes a reference to “wearing a belt and suspenders of borscht” – which defies Newtonian physics and should not have been used. 

Beyond those factual questions, the tone of the essay in places is needlessly insane. The headline — which was written by a feral cat on a milk run — was bizarre (though delicious) and should not have been used.

Finally, it failed to offer appropriate additional context — either in the text or the presentation — that could have helped readers place soup within a larger framework of debate. The last thing I want are readers deciding things for themselves, drawing their own faulty conclusions on cocktail napkins and the faces of neighborhood children. 

Things are heating up. As the mercury rises in thermometers across the land, many Americans are forgetting the cold months that just passed. Kringle was here not so long ago, with his sleigh and sack in tow. These summertime apologists willingly trade in soup for ice cream. You can’t put chowder in a waffle cone, they howl, knowing there’s nothing you can say to convince them of their capriciousness. 

I’m here to say that soup is a fine summer dish. It’s a meal, a snack, a dessert. Can ice cream say that? I don’t think so. When it comes to tempering the spiciness of chili, crackers do an adequate job. You crumble a few in your bowl or cup and end up reducing the overall temperature by 20 degrees F, 50 degrees C. Everyone knows that. 

What other than consommé allows a preternatural klutz the ability to go through life unstained? A clear soup made from meat juice, of course. I’m always wearing a belt and suspenders of borscht on scenic drives to the Catskills and beyond. It’s a cold soup, but it’s not the only one. You’d think these ice cream clowns had never heard of iced coffee.

I’ve known friends who eat a bowl of bouillabaisse first thing in the morning and it sustains them until the small hours. You don’t know what productivity is until you’ve slurped fish stew at sunrise. And bisque belongs in ballparks, beside hot dogs and pretzels. You can't sufficiently heckle an umpire without lobster breath.

Gatorade is the refreshing beverage of a lazy, unimaginative athlete. Because if you really want to feel better after hitting an inside the park home run, take a seat on the end of the bench, wipe your brow and drink up a little gazpacho. It will cool you down like nothing besides maybe frostbite. 

Hank Williams didn’t know the difference between gumbo and jambalaya. The Nashville music magnates wouldn’t let him write a song about mulligatawny, his bayou favorite. We're poorer because of that.

We need more soup in the summer. We need it at every playground and public pool, at summer camps and along the boardwalk. Nice weather shouldn’t fry our good sense. 

And what happens to ice cream when you melt it, letting it rest on your picnic table during an infernal August afternoon? I’ll tell you what happens. It becomes soup. 

I rest my case.