For the last two days I have gotten out of bed at 5:30 AM (in the dark before the dawn- just to be clear!) to begin preparing Chicken Bacon and Wild Rice Soup so my family could eat something hot, delicious and homemade for dinner. On Monday, I had the thought to put it in the crock pot to simmer into yum yum all day. I fried the bacon. I made the cream portion which is shockingly similar to making gravy--No wonder I like cream soups so much. After this, I put it in the crock pot. ONLY I forgot to add the chicken broth and the rice soaked up all the "gravy" and I made wild rice play dough.
So today, I got up resigned to make it on the stove. I cooked rice, made the soup gravy and mixed it into a lovely soup. Did I mention I started this process at 5:30 AM? It is worthy of reiteration. I turned off the stove and asked my husband to place it in the fridge when it wasn't boiling hot. With that, I walked. out. the. door. I could come home from work, add the rotisserie chicken and bacon, heat it up, and we would be eating good. ONLY HE forgot to put it in the fridge. So instead of almost done dinner, I found 9 hour old congealed cream soup.
I wanted to fall on the floor and cry. I wanted to kick my husband in the shin. I wanted to toss the pot across the room. But, I didn't. Tears, bodily harm, and pot chunkin', while satisfying, would not bring back my soup. As I collected myself and got a handle on the death of 2 soups in 2 days, Mr. Iron Gut ACTUALLY, for real Y'all, asked "Why can't we eat it?" Rather than deliver a lecture (straight out of my college food bacteriology course) about temperature abuse, toxin producing staphylococcus, chills, sweats, dehydration, projectile vomiting, lethargy, abdominal pain, bloating, excessive gas and other lovely forms of gastrointestinal distress, I simply replied, "You can. Let me know what happens."
He Did Not.