I awoke to find a trail of ants the size and shape of a patch of body hair churning around the area of floor I’d soiled with soup and failed to properly clean. On the other hand, once strained, the soup -- now cool and the appealing color of green tea ice cream -- tasted fantastic -- rich and lively, with depth provided by the roasted garlic and the chicken stock, texture courtesy of butter and my hapless blender, the beans and cauliflower intertwined in a nutty, herbaceous, harmonious embrace. Later that night, we would serve it in tiny to-go espresso cups with toasted hazelnut crumbles, finely chopped parsley, and neat drizzles of olive oil. I botched the first cup by accidentally dumping in about a shot or two of oil -- and cursed -- but the rest turned out fine -- once I let the lady handle the pouring. Out in the dining room, conversation paused. Everyone was quiet, sipping away. My hand and forearm throbbed a little bit. I was sweating under my apron. So much shelling, so much spilling, so much cursing -- and yet the soup managed to hold. It was good, the way I’d wanted it to be. Things don’t always fall apart. The process of creating something so simple and easy might have been unnecessarily tortured and chaotic, but the result, blessedly, was pure and refined, even serene -- swirling green peace in the bottom of a soup spoon.

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Spilling my Soup: A Recipe