When I was younger my mother would call me into the kitchen to help her cook. These were my cooking lessons, usually on Saturdays. I would grumble, throw my book on the bed and trudge into the kitchen to help her cook when all I wanted to do was get back to my book.
I would do the basics- clean and cut the chicken, act as her sou chef by cutting up the onions, garlic, vegetables and do all the nitty gritty things that go into cooking. Being the sneaky little girl that I was (said with pride), I would eventually slip out of the kitchen and get back to my book. Sometimes my mother would call me back after a few minutes, but I had already done most of the work so I didn’t feel all that bad about skipping out of the rest. Usually she would let me be, but there were those deplorable times when she came to drag me back into the kitchen.
The point of this story? I realized later that I never learned how to cook soup. During my lessons I would leave at the pivotal soup cooking point to get back to my book. As an adult this would be funny if I my soups weren't abysmal. Ah, but I would totally skip out on the soup making lessons again if I had the chance. After all I can always get someone else to cook soup for me.