Tomato Soup and Other Forms of Therapy

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Hello, friends.

It’s been an interesting week here in Casa Ghost.

My husband decided to channel his inner Billy Joel this week, —literally—and has been away getting treatment. And while the medical write-ups for this condition sound like a horror movie script, every doctor we saw was unfazed. So don’t worry about Billy. He’ll be fine. And so will my husband.

Does that affect my plans to cook with the ghost this week, you ask? Absolutely.

Because I cook differently when I’m cooking just for me.

When I cracked open the cookbooks to choose a recipe, everything I’d bookmarked last week suddenly felt like too much. Too many steps. Too much food. Too much of a production. I wasn’t in the mood for guests, either—well, aside from the usual semi-transparent one.

So, the ghost and I pivoted. We landed on two recipes that always speak to my soul when it comes to comfort food: Cream of Tomato Soup (Appetites, pg. 37) and Grilled Cheese Sandwiches with Caramelized Onions (pg. 87).

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve made this exact meal because I was overwhelmed, heartbroken, or just needed a hug—I’d be at least a few hundred dollars richer. Maybe more if you adjusted for inflation.

I started prep the usual way, wielding my frighteningly sharp, Bourdain-approved knife. It glides through vegetables like butter and scares me just enough to keep me present.

Then I felt it—that ghostly tap on the shoulder.

Breathe, he said. Unclench your jaw. Turn on some music.

Years ago, I stumbled across a list of Anthony Bourdain’s favorite songs to cook to (possibly in Rolling Stone) and made a playlist in Amazon Music (Spotify version here). It’s become my go-to soundtrack for slicing, stirring, and swearing. Recently, I discovered a Far Out Magazine playlist on Spotify—302 songs deep. The only question: to shuffle or not to shuffle?

With punk rock humming gently through the kitchen and a glass of alcohol-free cabernet in hand (yes, I quit drinking—solidarity, Anthony), the stress started to melt.

As I stirred the soup and slowly caramelized the onions, I realized something. Cooking like this—actually cooking, just for myself—is my highest form of self-care. It’s not an afterthought. It’s not a survival tactic. It’s a love letter to myself, written in butter and steam.

I set a place on the patio, queued up the playlist, and plated my dinner. The ghost had gone quiet—or maybe he was just savoring the anticipation of a perfect meal.

That tomato soup? Best I’ve ever had. Hands down. The grilled cheese with caramelized onions? A masterpiece.

Lately, I’ve found myself floored by how refined these recipes are. For someone so famously irreverent, Anthony Bourdain’s food is surprisingly thoughtful—elegant, even. His well-documented disdain for guys like Emeril and Guy Fieri makes more sense now. There’s no bravado in these dishes. No culinary cosplay. Just balance, depth, and intention.

What’s on the menu for next week? I have no idea. But tonight, I’ll be making The Grill Bitch’s Bar Nuts (pg. 112) and sipping leftover tomato soup like it’s a top-shelf bourbon.

Seems like the perfect way to end the week.

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