I’m normally averse to leftovers: it’s not a trait I like in myself. I’d far rather be able to eat the same thing for days on end, especially when it’s seasonal veg, or an enormous, hearty stew that I’ve spent ages making. It’s a sensible way of cooking: healthy, seasonal, cheap, time-saving. But I’m easily bored, and the best laid plans of mice and men the night before, clingfilmed or tupperwared up, no longer appeal the following lunchtime. I end up parcelling those thoughtful, carefully prepared dishes onto my husband and plumping instead for so-called novelty in the form of toast, or a sandwich.
For some reason, soup is the one dish that doesn’t suffer this fate. This means it’s the one thing I batch cook without immediately slinging in the freezer and forgetting about it. I actually like knowing that there’s a pot of soup in my fridge, that it will punctuate the next few days.

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