There is a popular Vsauce video about something bizarre; this description doesn’t narrow it down at all, but there. It begins with a question about the fundamental nature of cereal. Is it a kind of soup? Is it the inverse? Solid-in-liquid orliquid-in-solid. I digress. What I’m going to talk about is instant soup. Many members of civil society believe it is an abomination. Indeed, many have reported being detained at shop exits by self-proclaimed soup-people. “We’re here to keep the integrity of soup intact” they proclaim.
I shudder.
But soup is soup, if the world is still here come September.
These people. Their lofty ideas. Their sunken heads. Their neanderthal ways. Who eats vegetables anymore? Who in their right mind decides to chop up some celery? Who makes soup from scratch? Madpeople, that is who. Who waits, with bated breath, for the soup to boil over? Who waits for the starch to break down and settle firmly, enriching the taste and thickening the broth? Who cares whether you’re getting enough antioxidants? Psychopaths and cannibals, that is who. Who cares if you choose to live a highfalutin-yet-dull life of 19th century classics and 21st century misery? Souppeople. That is the primal sin.
Instant soup is as soup-like as soups go. It is, truly, more than soup. An emblem of nifty living. The ambassador of cavalier disregard for health. The embodiment of millennial angst. When standing at a Whole Foods shelf of green, luscious, succulent (“And disgusting!”) and disgusting vegetables, which one do you pick up? The humble, pointy carrot, who is the stepbrother of the bland radish? Or the pompous cabbage. Or the (“Obnoxious!”) obnoxious plurality of beans. Or the tart orange. Or the, well, variety of Satanic cherubins present before you. No, you take a step back. Take two steps further back. There you find cans and sachets of instant soup. You pick them up, place them in your shopping cart and bless the heavens. How difficult is it to grasp?
But when you walk past the high street, something strange happens. It is almost unmistakable. Imagine a skunk merrily trotting along the pavement, its reek turning noses in its wake, as if pulled by limber, invisible threads. That skunk is your handbag. What does the French patisserie think of your preposterous dinner?
“It is the fall of man.” Monsieur BeauSoup says. The sous-chef is less haughty. “It is, well, not ze best thing.” he says, pat.
But why do they care? You have to boil some water and cut open the sachet. Smile for ten full seconds and mix it well, stir it, lick the spoon, and sit back. It’s the end of a day. You could do with less haute couture culinary nonsense. You stare at your regiment of cans and sachets. It is your armament against the rest of the culture-obsessed world. It is your fortress, your store to last the Siege of Leningrad. It is, quite simply, the best thing in the world.