We had a Thanksgiving where there weren’t enough croutons to go around and now it’s one of the perennial stories told between courses. “Do you remember when the kiddie table didn’t get enough croutons?!” There isn’t a person at the kiddie table under the age of 30, and we have long memories.

Now that it’s my responsibility, I won’t let “Remember that time @shnizmuffin@lemmy.inbutts.lol didn’t make enough croutons,” become the next generation’s casual dunk.

We have a family recipe for escarole soup. The closest commercial approximation would be Progresso Italian Wedding Soup. Making it from scratch means rolling a carpal tunnel amount of meatballs, each the size of a marble. Then making an impossibly large and thin omelet, cutting it into strips, then hand rolling and chopping those strips. Then you have to make soup.

(I’m not the one making the soup, it’s completely out of my wheelhouse. That task falls to a team of mother/daughter pairs. Deep frying the croutons is the only way I can meaningfully contribute.)

How old was the sponge? We blow through one or two a month.

(We cook more than most, and none of the cookware can go in the dishwasher.)