If nothing else, I am a man of habit. Changes in my routine only come about when I am at wits end and must change something or risk becoming homeless. Even then I will resists until the bailiffs are drilling out the locks on my door. As such, my routine has been consistent for most of the past two years. Of course, that routine amounts to little more than waking up at around seven or eight in the morning under the self-deluding guise of doing something productive with my day, only to do nothing more than bemoan my inability to do anything other than moan. Some would tell me to change, but to them I say: no.
In the short lulls between the moaning ending and the existential dread beginning I allow myself some lunch, to refuel myself for the angst that is to fill my afternoon and, indeed, most of the evening, too. Being the man of habit that I am, I keep to the same meal for almost all of my lunches. Dinner is a different matter, however; dinner is the food time for creativity: bread and chips, burger and chips, chicken and chips, chicken and pasta, tuna and pasta, pasta and sauce–anything goes!
But for lunch, there is only one thing I will eat: soup. Not just any soup mind; only tomato soup. Offer me chicken and I will politely decline. Offer me oxtail and I will pull a face and say no. Offer me minestrone and I will punch you in the throat. It has to be tomato soup. Sometimes if I am feeling particularly crazy I might add a slice or two of bread for dunking. I may even stretch to toast from time to time, though I do prefer the softer dunking of a bread, particularly if it’s a thicker slice that can absorb more liquid but still keep its integrity. And sometimes, when all sense of decorum has gone out of the window, I might even buy a small salt-and-pepper baguette, like the ones found in Asda and have that with my soup. I don’t often go for the salt-and-pepper baguette though, not least because it’s a rather greasy thing and I hate having grease on my fingers. I do not believe that I am in any way acting dramatic when I say that the psychologiclal pain inflicted on me by having greasy tips is far worse than the physical pain of childbirth.
All of this is to say nothing more than I quite like tomato soup. If it were up to me (and quite frankly it should be), then tomato soup would be the only option in the supermarkets, the markets, the corner stores, and that guy who sometimes comes up to my house asking if I’d like to make an order for the food van coming around. “Is a man not entitled to choose chicken soup?” asks the man in the link. “No,” I say. “There is much too much chicken soup on the shelves, all of them terrible and bland and in the weird state of simultaneously being too watery and too thick.”
And while I’m at it, ban tomato with basil too. I have lost count of the times I have unwittingly picked up a can thinking it plain tomato to only realise my mistake much later when an ungodly taste is attacking my buds. The only Basil I want is the one in the Towers.
Heinz Tomato Soup did not sponsor this blog. But I really wish it had.