Last winter, we were driving Graham home from Plymouth when he asked, “What’s for dinner?” It was dark and cold, and route 44 stretched out like a black ribbon ahead of us.
“Chicken pot pie soup,” Lauren said.
“Chicken pot pie?” said Graham.
“Soup,” said Lauren. “Chicken pot pie soup.”
“What is that?” I said.
“It’s like the inside part of a chicken pot pie.”
“No crust?” I said.
“No.”
“Soup is not a meal,” Graham said.
“It’s supposed to be pretty hearty,” said Lauren.
“Why do they call it chicken pot pie soup?” I said.
“Cuz it’s just the filling of chicken pot pie, I guess.”
“But the filling of chicken pot pie is cream of chicken soup. So why not just call it that?”
“It’s just what the recipe is called.”
“But you would have to agree that’s dumb,” I said.
Lauren sighed heavily. “I get recipes from eMeals. This is one. It’s called chicken pot pie soup.”
“If it has no crust, there’s no point, Mom,” Graham said.
“No one is making you eat it,” said Lauren.
“Hold on,” I said. “We have to talk about this name. It makes no sense.”
“I didn’t name it!” Lauren said.
“I’m not saying you did,” I said. “But you’d have to agree that it should just be cream of chicken soup. Or at best, cream of chicken and vegetable.”
“Please stop,” said Lauren.
“Mom, ít’s dumb,” said Graham.
“It’s sham marketing,” I said. “Let’s just follow the logic. So we should sell jars of peanut butter but call them ‘Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Filling’?”
Graham laughed. “Or bags of marshmallows called ‘Puffed S’more Filling.’”
“Guys, please,” said Lauren. “I’m so tired.”
“Instead of Uncrustables, you just sell baggies of peanut butter and jelly and call them Unbreadables,” said Graham.
“Or literally just pb&j,” I said. “Cuz that’s all it is.”
“What about Non-Country-Fried Steak?” said Graham. “It’s just a steak.”
“Oh my gosh,” Lauren said.
“This could work for anything,” I said. “Don’t sell snow globes—just water and plastic in a cup and call it Snow Globe Soup.”
“Hang a label over your outside water spigot,” said Graham. “‘Garden Hose Water.’”
“Think of sausage or hot dogs,” I said.
Graham laughed. “No casing. Just ‘Sausage Filling.’”
“What about donuts?” I said.
“You order Boston Kreme Cream and get pudding,” said Graham.
“I’m gonna throw myself out of this car,” Lauren said.
“Jelly Stick Jelly,” I said.
“Cake Frosting Donut Frosting,” said Graham.
“Seriously, guys,” said Lauren.
“We have ten more minutes of this ride,” I said. “We could do this all night.”
“I can’t take this all night,” she said.
“Chocolate-covered Pretzel Pretzels,” said Graham.
“Pull over,” said Lauren. “I’ll just walk home.”
“It’s twenty-five degrees and you could get smashed by a car out here.”
“If I die, I die.”
“I mean, you could just agree with us,” I said.
“I will never make this meal again.”
A few weeks later, we were walking through a terminal at Logan Airport. We looked up to see a poster at Potbelly Sandwiches:
Chicken pot pie soup.
“Don’t,” Lauren said. “Just don’t.”
Graham snickered. We’ve never eaten it again.
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