I’d been waiting to have a weekend early evening free, so when today offered me a window between the end of work and the start of the Patriots game (hey defense, how about you wake up now, kthnx), I ignored the amazing warmth of the day and pretended it felt like October instead.

Since I’ve yet to get a crock pot and allow myself the chance to enjoy the wonder of making stews*, I brought my bags of groceries home and immediate set to filling up the big soup pot. I diced chicken and vegetables and used the post pathetic can opener improvisation** to add in some black beans and corn/pepper mix. After cooking the chicken, I added chicken stock; after the liquid came to a boil, in went the beans, corn and vegetables (diced onion, red pepper, green pepper – the more the better), along with a little lemon juice and hot sauce. The soup was set to simmer for a nice long time; when it was finished, I added more hot sauce to taste.

The result? A slightly modified take on a Rachael Ray soup recipe*** I found in one of Beth’s books a few apartments ago. It’s one of my favorite things to make and enjoy. I’ve also come to decide that it ends up tasting better if you’ve made it while dancing and singing in the kitchen.

I made enough so that I’m set for lunches during the week – a wise thing, considering that I’ll be out and about during the evenings pretty much every day this week. So now, I can curl up on the couch with my soup, enjoy a nice quiet evening with the place to myself…and watch the Pats get spanked by the Chargers.

Oh well. It’s almost perfect.

*I got it into my head a couple of weeks ago that I need a crock pot. Or, more specifically, I need a crock pot so that winter’s arrival and my resulting sense of melancholy can be battled by homemade beef stew. I am, if nothing else, very much the Irish lass.
**I didn’t realize until today that we didn’t have a can opener in the apartment. I KNOW! I ran out to get one and decided to buy a can/bottle opener as a temporary fix. I mangled the hell out of those poor, unwitting cans. Bad. Ass.
***Here’s my thing about Rachael: the woman’s oversaturation bugs me now, but she still speaks my language when it comes to cooking. I can’t completely hate her. She cooks the way I cook (only better. And more often). But if I ever say “yummo,” you have permission to slap me.