Italian Wedding Bell Soup is ambrosial, one of the best soups ever simmered by humankind. Complex, toothsome, I’ve had it in restaurants where the balance of flavors and textures left me swooning at its perfection, and I cheerfully savor an overly-commercialized bowl from a billion-dollar conglomerate because it tastes good.
Until that conglomerate stabbed me with a fork. A friend of mine mistakenly bought me its spicy version. I didn’t understand her when she said it was spicy. Spicy????????? Who in the world makes a spicy Italian Wedding Bell Soup? “OK,” I thought, “must not know my Italian.” Me, NYC kid, shopped Little Italy. Wouldn’t know my Tortellini en Brodo from Cioppino (Technically, Cioppino is Italian-American, but based very closely on homeland customs and definitely a little zippy with red pepper.). Even after some back-and-forth “Are you sure, spicy might not be such a good idea,” – explanation later – I didn’t understand. So, ravenous, I tried to eat my cherished soup. Cordon Blech and fed the disposal.
Why am I whining about soup? I’m recovering from unexpected surgery. Tiniest things make such a difference. That wasted can made it harder for me to feed myself. I think only three mouthfuls made me sick: my recovery is so awful it’s had to tell if anything is adding injury to insult. It was a disappointment when I didn’t need a disappointment.
And why am I writing about soup? Many of my clients blame themselves for the soup stuff, the stuff they may not have control over, the stuff they have a right to react to but they believe they don’t. And too many of my clients start to believe they only deserve the soup stuff. I don’t have a magic formula to teach people how to stop doing that to themselves. But think about what I’m saying. Let the idea simmer.
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