I sometimes order take-out from the nearby Italian restaurant on nights when there’s not enough food in the fridge to put a meal together and I have a craving for this restaurant’s particular chicken tortellini soup—tiny pieces of chicken, cheese tortellini, some spinach, and hot chicken broth (so good!).
But take-out soup from this restaurant, although delicious, isn’t really user-friendly for someone looking to spend as little time as possible in the kitchen. It requires some assembly, so to speak.
Until tonight, I thought I followed the only existing order of operations to get the soup out of its awkward, flimsy packaging and into a bowl—a routine set in motion by thinking, This isn’t going to go well, so why even try.
Tonight, however, something occurred to me as I unconsciously went about my routine, and I’ll never assemble this soup in the same way. In fact, I wondered how many more mundane actions could be transformed into acts of self-care thanks to a small shift in focus away from self-scrutiny.
The soup-assembly process isn’t brief, but I will try to be here. It invariably involves carrying the brown bag to the counter and pulling out the rectangular plastic container of soup, which comes wrapped in another brown bag secured with tape, which I rip open to reveal a wobbly takeout container covered in plastic wrap that I struggle to tear until my hands are covered in broth from soup that’s leaking from under the plastic lid, after which I’d give in, get the scissors, and cut the rest off. There’s more.
I get a soup bowl from the cabinet, peel off the greasy lid of the container that’s filled with fragrant soup to the very brim, then, still on autopilot, as well as hungry, in a hurry, a bit lazy, and resigned to the aforementioned truth that this-isn’t-going-to-go-well, but fortified by an I’ll-worry-about-it-later attitude, I pick up the container with both hands, aim the corner of it over the soup bowl, and pour the liquid and tiny chicken chunks into the bowl, spilling about a ¼ cup of it as it sloshes out and overflows.
With my hands, the sides of the bowl and the counters are covered in soup, I finally breathe, letting the usual mixture of low-grade panic, disgust, and dread rise up, while thinking something like, When will I learn how to pour this soup perfectly into a bowl without making any mess or wasting a single drop? Then I clean up, reach for a spoon, and with so much relief, spoon up dinner.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, after I place the soup container on the counter about to go through the usual unwrapping, pouring, and cleaning, as well as self-doubt, self-contempt, and relief, I pause and think, How would I serve this to someone I love?
Somehow, I know exactly what to do next. I cut the plastic wrap off the container with the scissors, and carefully pry off the lid. As usual, the soup is filled to the top and I pause to breathe in the comforting smell. I even have time to acknowledge that the person at the restaurant who filled the soup for me gave me as much as they could. Then, I find the ladle in the kitchen drawer and slowly ladle my dinner from the take-out box to the soup bowl until it’s almost full. I crush some salt-topped crackers in my hand, drop them into the hot broth, and lift the bowl onto a potholder so it’s comfortable to hold.
No mess, no stress. No self-criticism, no punishment. No relief. Instead, my nervous system is regulated. I feel grounded, calm, and present, and I think I even feel love. It’s like a good dopamine hit at no extra cost.
Instead of wishing for perfection and at the same time being resigned to disaster, seeking only to bring care into the equation allowed perfectionism to fade away. I didn’t need to let it go, it fell away on its own when I no longer cared to be perfect. My careful attention allowed me to not only complete the ugly soup routine with some grace, but also to notice an energy of appreciation that I had missed out on the whole time. And I actually did feel cared for—so much so that even when a few drops of soup spilled on the counter, they merely became part of the caring action I was doing and not instead of evidence of my imperfection.
As I savoured each spoonful of soup, I may have been getting carried away, but I also wondered, Have I figured out the secret to a good life? Or at least, my good life? At the very least, I’ve maybe found a tourniquet for a recovering perfectionist.
I continually hear people ask versions of, “When will I be perfect?” I always sympathize because I understand, but I usually feel a bit of anger too because, Perfect for whom? And, Why do we care what they think? I want everyone to know how good it feels to focus on self-care for once. But next time I hear someone ask, I don’t think I’ll tell them this story. I think they need to realize it for themselves—maybe during dinner one night when they’re unaware that what they’re preparing is about to become the proverbial chicken soup for the soul.
“Have I figured out a secret to my good life?”🩷 Beautiful!
Beautifully written. I love when I learn a fresh perspective on an everyday dilemma. ❤️