Pasta Sauce

I’d made this recipe so many times it was practically muscle memory by now. The first time I cooked it was for my husband. He never lied about my cooking—he would just say, “It could use more spice.” That was a common occurrence in our home. When your husband grows up licking hot sauce off his fingers, his spice tolerance climbs to superhuman levels. He was the only one brave enough to order "Thai hot" when ordering Tom Yum Goong-Style soup from Juree's Restaurant.

I pulled the big pot from the cupboard and started chopping onions. They had me tearing up immediately, but I kept slicing them into smaller bits. I poured olive oil into the pan waiting on the stovetop and slid the onions in with my knife. Within seconds, the satisfying sizzle of frying onions filled the kitchen. I went to the fridge, grabbed some garlic, smashed the cloves, and tossed them into the mix. The scent of garlic and onion blended beautifully.

Then I headed to the pantry for the pasta sauce I always used—only to discover the shelf was empty. Oh no. A flashback hit me. Right… I’d used the last jar for lasagna last week.

Okay, think fast. The onions and garlic were going to burn if I didn’t add something. I panicked and grabbed a can of tomato soup that was right in front of me. By the time I returned, the garlic was already turning black. I poured the soup in anyway, hoping that the taste of burnt garlic might magically disappear. I stirred. I tasted. Nope. It tasted exactly like burnt onions and garlic.

What next? Oregano. Maybe oregano would fix it. I sprinkled some in. Then more. Still wrong. I usually add cayenne for heat, so I reached for the bottle on the top shelf. Something was stuck, so I tapped the bottom. Then I banged it. And wham! The lid shot off, I yelped, and half the bottle dumped into the pot. I cursed loudly.

Now what? I grabbed the salt grinder and ground, and ground, and ground. That wasn’t going to save it. Wait—cream! Cream could mellow it out. I opened the fridge. The expiry date was passed, but it smelled okay… I think. I poured it in—and instantly, little chunks of dairy floated to the surface. Oh no. That wasn’t good. I opened the carton and sniffed properly this time. Yup. Definitely bad. I even let the dog smell it; he gave me a disgusted look and tiptoed away as if I had offended him.

I stared at the disaster bubbling in the pot. I had to taste it, right? Bad cream, burnt onions, burnt garlic, canned tomato soup, and enough cayenne to send someone to the hospital—what could go wrong?

I took a spoonful. Swallowed. Gagged. Then ran straight to the bathroom and vomited. After flushing, I sat on the floor and accepted the truth: this was doomed the moment I reached for the tomato soup. If I’d just checked my ingredients beforehand, none of this would have happened. Now I’d wasted perfectly good cayenne pepper, onions, garlic, and tomato soup.

I dragged myself back to the kitchen—only to find my husband standing over the pot with a spoon.

“No, wait!” I shouted, but it was too late. He’d already put the spoon into his mouth.

He immediately turned to the sink and started vomiting.

“I know you’re new to cooking,” he said between coughs, “but that’s disgusting!”

"It needs to be tossed," I said. "Unless you can fix it?" I gave him a hopeful smile.

" I can't fix this," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "What happened?" he asked.

"Well, I did not check if we had all the ingredients, and then the lid of the cayenne pepper popped off, cause I thought something was stuck, and now, well, we have failure soup," I explained to him quickly.

"Okay, here's what we will do: I throw this out, and how about we go out tonight?" he said, nearly laughing.

"Okay..." I say slowly.

"Don't worry about it, honey, it could have happened to anyone," he said with a hug.

The End