I heard that Latvians like potatoes. I thought to myself, I will throw a yummy potato soup in the crockpot to greet our sweet K as she enters our home. Potatoes, comfort food, smell of home. Clearly, I am amazing. In my head, she would tuck into the soup and think warm thoughts about her host mom, the knower and understander of all Latvian food desires.
After the airport, after the long drive home, in which Evie never. stopped. talking. not. once. not even to take a breath. oh. my. word, we walked into our house, and the smell was good. It was very good. Potato soup. Pulling. it. off.
Everyone sat down to the table, pre-set with all utensils, condiments, and a little name card for K so she’d know where to go. I walked over to the crock pot. I dipped in the ladle. And then my awesomeness dissolved into a cesspool of lumpy slime. Oh frick.
As I’m gamely glopping the soup into bowls, Elliott asks, “What, is that vomit?” Yep. Yes, it is. It looks exactly like it. I topped the vomit with bacon bits, yeah, that’ll help, and served it up. With gluten-free cornbread muffins.
To her credit, she took one bite of everything. And fed Spike bits of her faux-muffin under the table. As the soup cooled, it really took on a sheen, glistening in the overhead lighting.
I’m pretty sure I made her miss plane food AND orphanage food. I’m really killing this hosting thing. Take notes.
I got her a bowl of cereal, with almond milk, because she hit the gluten free/dairy free jackpot with this family. Big win? Clementines. She ate five of them. God=best chef ever. I will not try to put those things in the crock pot.
Despite a dinner fit for the gulag, we had a good night, and the next morning she gave me a bear hug and a handmade Christmas card. Exhale. Forgiven for the vomit soup.
