The Soup That Grew

One of the chief benefits of living alone, is that you almost never make a mistake. I speak of cooking mistakes. Who sees your errors when there is no one to see? Much like the tree that doesn't fall on the mountainside. When something you cook turns out badly, it's called "destiny" and when you forget to add something you should have remembered, there is no one to say " tut tut". If your dish becomes a disaster, no one frowns. It suddenly morphs to compost and composting is never a mistake. I aimed today, to make French Onion Soup, but as it turned out: well, we shall see. A good many onions went into the crock along with water, a dab of butter and S and P. While the hours went by as it bubbled slowly out on the deck due to its highly fragrant offerings, I wondered also what to do with the left overs from a date at the Greek restaurant: namely potatoes, carrots and broccoli that I left after eating the prawn souvlaki and salad. With the leftovers, I concocted with water, a clear broth adding fresh celery and herbs. Later in the day, I suddenly remembered that you ought to fry the onion not boil it. Too late, the crock was gently bubbling the onion in its own juices. Not to mind. There must be all kinds of Onion Soup. The vegetable broth needed draining now, and  the dregs would go into the compost but the clear stock was saved. The onions were transparent in their broth  and then emptied into the frying pan to be sizzled with butter along with the addition of flour for thickening. A bit later, in goes  a smash of wine for flavour and more herbs. The onion didn't fry up well, but was presentable. I poured the onion liquids into the large wok that was holding the almost fried onions and then poured in the vegetable stock. It all looked rather loose, therefore, I decided to help by dropping in a few opportune handfuls of  macaroni. I love any kind of pasta.  And what onion soup can ever go without parmesan cheese shredded into it? There wasn't a lot of colour, therefore, to me, it called for small green peas to brighten it up. The soup still was somewhat watery, therefore, I remembered about having perogies for breakfasts. I added eight of them to the liquid for good measure and they looked adorable floating about while waiting to be flipped. The perogies were of the potato sort. When they had cooked having been flipped, I extricated them from the broth and kept them for the morning breakfast to fry up and savour with sour cream. The rest of the pot looked appealing now, since the macaroni had not only grown up, but also helped thicken the dish. It looked seriously like something  deliberate. I am having a bowl of it with ketchup, my weakness, while I write.  No one but I would know how my French Onion Soup grew into such a delicious pasta dish with deep mysterious flavours, no mystery to me.