The Soup War

The soup did it.
 
But I digress.
 
Maybe I should begin at the beginning.
 
I had been fighting a war by land, and a war by air. I was being attacked from the ground by a battalion of merciless ants, and from the air, by a group of relentless moths. I refused to spray chemicals, and thus far, the only arsenal at my disposal had been a bottle of mint scented dish washing liquid which they didn't seem to like. The biggest drawback was that my floors and counter tops were now bathed in a green jell-like substance. The second drawback was that once it dried, they gingerly crawled out of their nests, heaving big pieces of rice (in proportion to their size) onto their backs, taking it back as booty to their waiting comrades.
 
Ant watching can be quite fascinating. HaShem imbued these tiny creatures with an entire infrastructure so sophisticated, that they truly are a testament to the wisdom and forethought of The Creator of the entire universe. And I wish them only the best—as long as they are outside my house. Once they have crossed the line into my territory, we are officially at war.
 
This never ending assault from the insect world has made me a bit apathetic to enter my kitchen. Whatever I cook seems to be at risk from attack, and I feel I have to be extra vigilant. This takes an extra amount of energy, which coupled with the desert heat outside, don't make for great motivators to get me into what was previously known as my kitchen, but which is now a militarized zone. That is why I was so proud of myself, when after about three days of eating corn schnitzels, and frozen felafel balls, and of course, pizza I decided to make a big, nutritious pot of minestrone soup. Soup?! In summer?! Yes. We eat soup in summer. It was also the middle of the nine days leading up to Tisha B' Av, when no meat is eaten, so minestrone soup seemed the perfect solution.
 
I took out my cookbook and began to chop. And chop. Even though I was exhausted from the mid-day excursion to the supermarket, my maternal need to feed my family a nutritious meal prevailed, and I diced, checked and chopped those vegetables. I stood there fighting the Yetzer's gentle cooing, as it tried to entice me into passing out on my couch—for just a little bit. I waved my peeler at it and told it to leave me alone. I wish I could say I struck a moth in the process, but that didn't happen. The moths kept up their impressive air show, the ants were working industriously all around me—and I—I soldiered on!
 
Finally, after some effort, the soup was finally spiced, diced and sauteed to perfection. The house had that distinct feeling coming from the kitchen, like a fluffy security blanket draped about its atmosphere. Mommy made dinner. Early. No one would be eating tea biscuits at six while Mommy scrambled to dig in the freezer! No siree! I patted myself on the back on a job well done. And then I gave in and threw myself on the couch, and tried to snooze while the moths flew, the ants walked about, and the seeker in the latest game of hide and seek screamed in my ear at their top of their lungs. But I was too tired to care….
 
I know what you are thinking…oh my goodness–she burned the soup! Right? Wrong! That would have been too easy, and maybe salvageable. No, no. The soup kappara had to come about in a different way….
 
But again I digress.
 
In the midst of a fitful slumber courtesy of the intermittent knocking of neighbors on the door, a real lively game of hide and go seek, the moths, the phone, someone crying (hey is that one of ours?) the phone, the screaming, the screaming, the phone, the screaming…
 
Okay! I'm up! 
 
Oh No! The soup!
 
I stumbled into the kitchen half asleep (because I wasn't fully asleep to begin with, just half) I realized I needed to add the pasta.  I looked in the pot. Phew! Not burned. I took out my white plate and proceeded to check the pasta, because I knew that we were currently going through a bit of an infestation problem, which our son has dubbed 'the pestilence'. I patted myself on the back further because I know how horrible it is to throw a bag of pasta into a boiling pot,(especially a pot worth almost an hour's worth of work) and have to  start the process again when ten ants float to the surface. I checked the macaroni, threw it in the pot, and dinner was on its way. Or so I believed.
 
There was a thought niggling in the back of my head after I dumped in the pasta. The thought went something like, “You should have checked the whole bag.” Now in literature, we call this foreshadowing. And if we were watching some cheesy soap opera on TV, which we wouldn't of course, some alarming music would be piping in just about now. But instead, the moths continued to fly, and the ants continued to pillage my counters of whatever they could carry. And I began to dump out the whole bag of pasta, only to find –ta da dum! Total infestation! Not one, not two, but little Taliban like worms hiding in the safe contours of macaroni caves! Noooooooooooooooo!
 
Shall I bore the reader with the details of trying to track down our local Rav, of knowing in the pit of my stomach that instead of feeding my kids, I had just catered a whole meal for the neighborhood cats? I did what any logical thinking woman would do under the circumstances, and I called my husband at work. As soon as he heard my voice, he asked “What's wrong?!”
 
“Mnmnmnm(sniff) soup has worms (sniff) mnhgftysjhn(sniff) in the garbage (sniff)!”
 
“So we'll order pizza!” came the logical reply.
 
“Not the point (sniff) so much time (sniff) down the drain(sniff).”
 
After two more minutes of my wailing and sobbing and almost unintelligible gibberish, I hung up the phone, with a hefty dose of husband's sympathy, and instituted plan B for dinner (veggie burgers with vegetables and fries). I then did the next best thing any logical woman would do under the circumstances: I ate some chocolate. By the time I finally did reach the Rav, and he poskened that due to the high level of infestation the cats would indeed be the benefactors of my soup, I was able to take it with total aplomb.
 
And then I asked myself what HaShem might have been trying to tell me. And I came up with some 'food for thought', pun totally intended.
 
Firstly, I am not in control. I spent almost an hour concocting this delicious soup, and in the end, the freezer won out. This too was for the best. It also made me realize that as my kids tried to comfort me with “Gam zu le tova,” and “It should be a kapparah,” and other things along those lines—that emuna is not just about reading a book and nodding one's head—but putting into practice what we actually learn. Without these little quizzes now and again, how would we know where we are holding?
 
And of course, the biggest lesson of all. We are supposed to thank HaShem for the little tribulations. And when He actually sends them, most of the time we cry, and say, “No! I don't want it! This is too hard!” I have to learn to be better in recognizing these incredible acts of pure chessed from HaShem. The soup bore the brunt of the kapparah—it was a sacrifice I was supposed to give. So are the moths and the ants. So are the numerable inconveniences, that we happen upon our daily lives. We have to learn to say, Thank You. It's not health, it's not a national tragedy—it's soup. It's only soup. Everyone has their own 'soup' that they encounter now and again. I look back at my reaction, and I can't believe I resorted to tears, instead of thanking HaShem for this small tribulation. At the end of the day, I too am a work in progress, and I will try to be more careful next time I find myself deep in 'soup'.
 
I haven't had the heart to dispose of my 'small tribulation' just yet. The pot sits regally on my stove top, in all its stainless steel splendor, holding within it another lesson learned. May the only tears we cry be tears of joy, at the rebuilding of our third and final Beit Hamikdash. A time when all tribulations will come to an end, and we will be bringing real sacrifices once again. Hey—maybe I'll bring some soup….