I had some potatoes.
These potatoes I had have been calling my name. I tried to ignore them, but they just got louder and more insistent. Finally, I could block them out no more. I had to make them into soup. Them and the onion and celery that were sharing their space in the crisper drawer. So I made soup. Lots of soup.
Again, I didn't have a recipe. I just kind of made it up as I went along. It turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. Just perfect for a cold day like today.
While I was at it, I worked on the blankie.
And I made some tomato soup, too.
Why I needed two pots of two different kinds of soup, I don't know, but apparently, I did. And why I needed to make soup at all when I've got enough in the freezer to feed an army is beyond me.
I've long since given up trying to find a logical explanation for...well, for myself.
I've long since given up trying to be anyone but myself, and I'm discovering that being me is a pretty darn good thing to be.