January 20, 2014

The Never Ending Pot of Pork Soup

My parents are visiting this week to help me with the kids. My husband is on a business trip in Texas and I have a lot of things to do.

I decided to stir-fry some pork. My intentions were to make sweet and sour pork stir-fry. The outcome, something which went very awry.

First, I thought I would add some cornstarch to the pork pieces because I read somewhere it makes a thicker sauce. Perhaps I put too much cornstarch on it, perhaps I starting shaking the white powdery substance on top and couldn't seem to stop. (I'm not admitting to anything.)

In any case, it looked like boiled squeegee pork when I was done with it.

So then everything started going in the pot. (I'm not sure if you read about my attempt at making Indian samosas and the green goop that unfortunately followed. It isn't a pretty sight when hell breaks loose in my kitchen and I start adding things.)

I added chopped vegetables into the pot along with oregano, cumin, Italian Spices, oh and I found leftover (maybe) expired chicken stock in the refrigerator, then I had to add another container because there wasn't enough liquid, and the nasty chopped celery my mom brought up from South Bend (even though I didn't want to but she would know if I threw it away) and by the end of it --- I had a soup.

I let go of a huge sigh when I was done. What the hell did I make? Nothing was going to save this pork and instead I made a great soup surrounding nasty pork pieces. Ugh.

So for the past two days (since I added everything in the refrigerator practically) we have had this pork soup. I am so tired of it yet I don't want to waste food.

When my parents and daughter ate it for the first time they were wondering what kind of meat was in this soup. My daughter thought it surely had to be chicken brains, my dad's bet was on under-cooked chicken. (No, it's pork people, PORK!)

So the never ending pork soup is still in the refrigerator waiting for yet another day and another lunch. Now if my husband were here, I could somehow pawn it off on him. But he is on the business trip. My daughter is picky, my son spits it out onto the floor, my dad can barely chew the pork (he's 80 and can't even chew lettuce) and my mom will say, "It's okay" in a nonchalant tone and then I'll find it dumped in the garbage with paper plates on top to hide it.

Even my dog won't eat a piece of that pork.

Lesson learned: Always - measure - cornstarch!

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