I really feel like I should start off this whole 100 Days of Squee thing in by talking about just how amazing my wife is and how happy she makes me. But that’s not what I’m gonna do. Oh, don’t you worry, I’m sure I’ll be talking about her plenty over the course of these hundred happy-making things; I’m sure I could do an entire 100 Days project just on those bits of her which enrich my life. But today I want to start the project off with the little thing that made me so quietly happy yesterday that I had the idea to keep track of these squeeful things in the first place.
(Clearly this would be a good place to mention what’s probably pretty obvious: these 100 things aren’t in any sort of order whatsoever. If there’s indeed any such list which would feature “soup” before “my wife,” this ain’t it. These bits of squee will be coming out in the order I feel like writing about ‘em, that’s it. Also, remember how I said I might be touching on the trivial? Um, yeah, that.)
Yes, soup. I do love me some soup, and the soup I had for lunch yesterday — the French onion soup from Panera, filled with yummy melted Asiago — made both my taste buds and my stomach glow with warm happiness. And having lunch with said amazing wife surely didn’t hurt, either. (Hey, lookitme, I managed to make it just a little bit about Terry after all!)
French onion’s certainly one of my favorite soups (and I mean real French onion; as much as I liked the soup from Panera, even that’s a poor/cheap/quick imitation of the real thing), but I don’t get to have it very often since Terry developed a rather intense distaste for it sometime during her younger years. Luckily for me, I have plenty of other soup lurve to satisfy me, notably tomato soup, broccoli-n-cheese soup, potato soup (soooo bad for me, and soooo yummy), egg drop soup, even chicken noodle. McGuire’s Irish Pub, easily the most famous restaurant in my hometown, sells their Senate bean soup for 18 cents a bowl — and I’d gladly pay twenty times that much for it.
Good soup seems to make me feel better spiritually, if indeed it’s possible for a warm-to-hot liquid optionally containing other foodstuffs to do so. The act of eating soup enhappies me, the feeling of the warm-to-hot liquid sliding down my throat into my belly enhappies me, the fact that I don’t have to eat very much to be full enhappies me. So there you have it: soup == squee.
(One day down. Bear with me — I promise these will get better.)
 Yes, “enhappies” is so a word. Shut up.