Chopping, peeling, cutting and mixing, I kept adding ingredients to a soup. It was a big job, and I was preparing the meal in my kitchen sink. The sink was attached to heat elements which turned the massive steel bowl into a modern caldron complete with elements, heat dials and timers. Using my arms to stir the growing mix I could feel the broth slowly getting warmer.
I was making a soup in my sink at Adam's mom's house in the country. Adam was there watching and so was his mom, his step dad was somewhere close by too. I felt good about doing something nice for them. As I continued my preparations I noticed Adam had brought my ash tray from home. He looked at the cigarette butts and called them a word I didn't understand and can't remember. Thinking he was judging me as I stirred potatoes into my soup I surrendered that the butts were gross and needed to quit. Adam replied that he simply meant they looked good and understood how people could get addicted. With that he dumped the ash tray with all the cigarettes into my soup.
"Don't do that!" I moaned, like an impatient child. Quickly, I started sifting my hands through the broth in an attempt to retrieve the dirty filters. As I caught them one by one I ordered Adam to grab another onion from the pantry. "Slice it up and throw it into my soup," I said, "we need to cover the taste."