Soup
I made beef barley soup last week, and I was really glad I’d made the bed.
No, this is going to make sense.
Every year we buy a quarter of beef from a neighbor and along with the roasts and packs of hamburger, we get several packages of soup bones. Because I’m a big fan of soup, I see that as a huge win, particularly because I’m too lazy to be very creative about lunch menus. If I make a vat of soup, I’ll eat it for lunch every day until it’s gone, without feeling like I’m suffering at all.
The other big advantage of living on soup is that recipes are more or less optional. Really. If the recipe calls for rice, but all you can lay hands on in the larder are potatoes or barley, you’re still in the game. If you keep your mouth shut when you grab the thyme instead of rosemary no one will notice.
The only downside is that when you make a gallon of soup, you end up with a plate full of soggy bones. I can’t just throw them away, because with the tiny shreds of meat and gristle left on them, the guilt would be overwhelming to walk by all those soulful brown dog eyes on my way to the trash. I’ve been trained not to give dogs chicken bones, and there is a school of thought about feeding a dog the left-over ham bone. I try not to have opinions when I have no real knowledge about something, but I can’t help remembering when I was a kid our farm dog ate anything and everything with no apparent harm. I’m willing to believe we were just lucky he had a robust digestive system, and I try to be more careful with our current dogs. Still, it’s hard for me to believe those gigantic knobs of beef joints are dangerous. I give the big dog hers on the front step. I can’t stand the guilt of giving her the whole plate full, even though when I call the little dog over and give her a greasy bone, I know what will happen. Instead of laying down and happily gnawing away, she grabs it and dashes off, confident I’m going to try to steal it back.
Once she’s safely out of reach, she usually hides the bone under a sofa cushion, or else gnaws away all the soft spots, leaving the jagged edges for me to find when I walk barefoot to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Last night, though, I walked past the bedroom door and glanced inside. That morning I had carefully smoothed the bed when I made it, but now there was a suspicious swirl of disturbed bedding right next to my pillow. Because I am a man of vast experience, and pessimism, I checked it out and found the missing beef bone gently tucked under my pillow.
Maybe it was a gift, marking a new appreciation for my role in the household. Who knows? I do know it takes two hours and twelve minutes to wash and dry bedding and remake the bed.
Time well spent.
The bone went out the door, just as far as I could throw it.
Copyright 2026 Brent Olso
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