I can't believe I'm about to commit another food post.

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But strap in, because here we go.

Truth is, I hate cooking. I'm not really a big fan of food in general, to be honest. I mean, sure, I can appreciate a well cooked meal. Going out to eat can be a fun adventure.

But three times a day? Are you serious?

Not many people understand my point of view, because we're biologically programmed to want to eat. Meal-times are happy times, the foundation for the family, yadayada and all that other horse-shit.

(This might be a good time to mention that if you're offended by swearing, this post is not for you. I took lessons from a drywall hanger and for some reason it all comes out when I'm cooking.)

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Think about food from another angle. Do you enjoy sex? I'm guessing you do. But no harm, no fowl if it's not your thing.

Chances are, you find someone you love, put some effort in, you can have a pretty special time. Some nights you might be bumping uglies from dusk to dawn.

I bet you've had some dry spells, too. You're not always in the mood. Who is?

The thing is, you probably don't like sex enough that you'd want to do it three times a day, every day, for the rest of your life. So what if someone held a gun to your head and said, you better have sex three times a day or they'd kill you?

That's what food is to me. If I could survive by eating a couple times a week, I'd be content.

Instead it's nom nom nom from the break of dawn.

Life in the fast (metabolism) lane.

The wife is a hell of a cook. Unfortunately we've got very different caloric needs at the moment. She's got a slow metabolism that makes it hard for her to lose weight; despite this, she's followed a steady path from porker back to stunner over the past couple of years by sticking to salads and cutting out carbs. I'm inordinately proud of her for making a long term, sustained lifestyle change. And actually, it turns out she can survive on one meal a day, and remain active, and suffer no ill effects.

In fact, she seems to be aging backwards.

Meanwhile I've got the metabolism of a hummingbird.

Here's my day: AWAKE! Type, type, type-type-type. Anxiety from sitting still. Run 8 miles. naaaapppp..... AWAKE again (but with sleep paralysis for half an hour). Mow lawn and cut down trees. Clean house. Type. TV time. Coma.

It's a roller-coaster ride that requires 3000 calories a day. The last thing I want to do is spend time preparing them. But I can't conscience going out to eat several times a day, and I'm not going to have The Wife preparing big meals when she's finally getting back to her bikini body.

So I spend a lot of time grumbling in the kitchen with a black cloud over my head, throwing together large portions of pasta or rice or beans so I'll have enough left over to save me the task of making tomorrow's lunch. Sometimes I consult the internet if I want to get a little fancy, but usually the instructions on the package are more than enough.

And sometimes I just say fuck it and throw a bunch of stuff in a pot.

It's amazing how often that works.

"But Winston," you might ask, "Why should I take cooking advice from someone who hates food so much?"

Because this soup is fucking amazing, that's why. I'll be eating this stuff for a week.

And because you might hate cooking too. If you do, I've found my audience. I want to share an important message: It's okay to rage in the kitchen. Let the hate flow through you. You can use it to your advantage.

Here's how you do it.

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Find out when your local grocery offers a deal on rotisserie chickens.

Most of them have a sale once a week. It's a loss-leader thing for them. Ours sells them for $5 on Fridays. Get some cheap potato wedges to go with it and you can eat that shit for like two days and still have some leftovers.

Look at the sad demolished chicken carcass in the fridge.

Think: Shit. I'd better do something with that soon, or it'll go bad. Maybe it already went bad. Was the meat that pale-grey color before? Maybe it's crawling with bacteria. Who knows? I know what you do know. Boiling sterilizes everything. Throw that skeleton in a pot, cover it with water, turn it on to boil. Then go for a run.

Remember you're boiling a chicken.

You're back from your run. It feels great. Anxiety gone. Muscles loose. That shower's gonna feel so good. But FUCKING FLAMING SHITBALLS, there's a carcass boiling on the stove and you'd better fucking do something about it. You're not gonna want to deal with that after a shower. That's nap-time.

Cool it with fat.

The meat's all loose and falling off the bones. But whoa there, bucko! You can't just reach into boiling water and pick it off, not if you expect to type with those fingers ever again. But you don't want to wait for this bitch to cool down, either. That's when you remember you've been saving a jar of pan-drippings from the chicken thighs you cook for the dog. That's right, you hate to cook but your spoiled cunt of a chihuahua eats roasted chicken thighs every fucking day of the week because canned dog food gives him the shits, and so on top of preparing your own meals you've been cooking that shit up for him several times a week like he's one of the motherfucking queen's Welsh Corgis. So grab the saved stock out of the fridge, scoop that fat out with your fingers, and dump it into the pot. It'll cool things down enough for you to get to work.

Pick the bones.

This part actually feels kind of good. Don't be a pussy - admit it. Just reach into that fatty water and feel around for the bones. Scrape the meat off and toss the bones into the shitty plastic container the rotisserie chicken came in. Break up any larger pieces of meat into smaller pieces, tearing them apart like they're the soul-stuff of your worst enemies. Yes... See, it's fucking therapy. You'll want to pull out the cartilage too, but don't worry about the grey-black goop packed in among the smaller bones. No one really knows what it is but it's in chicken nuggets, and you eat those too, you wanker.

Throw all kinds of shit in there.

At this point you're thinking, hmm, this just looks like greasy dishwater with some stale chicken floating around in it. And you're right. So fuck that. What else is in the fridge? Some onions? Dice 'em. Potatoes? Chop them up small so they'll cook fast and get soft. Celery? Yeah, you thought you might want some celery on soup day, you clever bastard. What about those bell peppers in the back, the ones that look like they're getting a little mushy at the corners. Chances are The Wife doesn't want them for her salads; she probably forgot they were there. Cut out the crappy parts and throw the rest in.

Season.

The pot's getting kind of full now, but it still just looks like a bunch of shit floating in greasy dishwater. Go ahead and taste it. Kind of disappointing, right? Well, that soup's not going to salt itself, and the processed garbage you're used to has enough salt in it to genocide all the garden slugs of New England. So grab the salt shaker and go to work. What's that? It's clogged? Are you fucking kidding me with this dick-ass humid salt-shaker horseshit? Just grab the cardboard can of salt with whatever the fuck that spout thing is and dump some in there. Like, half a hand-full, I guess. I don't fucking know. Shake some pepper in while you're at it. Yeah, I'm aware that spices other than salt and pepper exist. Knock yourself out there, Garfunkel.

Rice.

Still kind of watery, huh? You're thinking you probably fucked it up, right? Well, you probably did. And you don't want to pour water out now; you already mixed all that fat in. Never mind. You know what absorbs water? Rice. Rice drinks fucking water and then you fucking eat it. It's brilliant. Throw some rice in there. I don't know. Half a cup for a gallon of soup? Maybe more. Call it a handful.

Now go take that shower, because you're still wearing your running clothes, and you stink.

Yes, leave the soup on the burner! Do I have to tell you everything?

OK, I know it doesn't look like much now, but when you get out of the shower that soup's gonna blow your fucking mind. And it really didn't take that long to make - did it, you whinging wanker?

You're welcome.

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I don't usually swear this much, because I don't usually cook. If you'd like proof, you can check out my archives.

And if you made it this far without closing the page in disgust, why not