Category: Life

Some people like cooking shows. I don’t.

But today I caught the end of Rachel Ray and she was making an incredibly delicious-looking soup.

This is not common knowledge but I love soups and stews. If you need to use a spoon, I’m happy.

But this soup situation did not make me want to catch her show more often. Just the opposite in fact, I was annoyed that this soup was not in my kitchen at that very moment — and I sure as hell was not going to whip a delightful soup myself in time to satisfy my soup needs.

Soups and stews are an integral part of Macedonian cuisine. One of my favourite soups is “Macedonian white bean soup” which is called bowp. I have no idea how to spell it but it sounds like BOW-p.

I spent about 20 minutes trying find the spelling online but found nothing but the Greek word for my Macedonian soup. I’m sure the Greeks love bowp too but it’s nothing like moussaka.

Bowp is not just a soup — it’s a meal in bowl.

My friend K. and I were chatting recently and she wondered if I would ever post anything deeper on my blog — I think she was talking about, you know, feelings. Well, no. I have no plans to do that — an overly personal blog is not my style. I’d rather show up nude at work.

But this post is actually about my feelings.

Rachel Ray’s soup today reminded me of how much I miss bowp — the soup my mother made us when we were little.

I saved the recipe online and I am planning to make some soon. Or maybe (since I can’t cook for beans) I’ll bring the recipe to my friend K.’s (another K.) mom’s kitchen. I have a feeling that A. and I could whip up a mean bowp together. Her kitchen is a warm place too.

Today I was at the streetcar stop promptly at 8:30 am. Under normal circumstances, this allows for plenty of time to get to work. But there is nothing normal about the King line. Six (6!) jam-packed cars rolled by me today before I could cram myself into one at 9:10 am. I waited for more than a half an hour and I was really late for work.

I have no excuse. I know that about half of the time this will happen. The other half of the time, the cars come one right after another — almost like a train — and I can usually get into one.

I know I should leave earlier. But I can’t get my mind around the fact that it can take almost an hour to travel such a short distance. I suppose I could walk but it’s not quite walking distance (for me anyway).

The only good news is that I won’t be living on the King line forever. That day can’t come too soon.