Tremendous Split Pea Soup

Folks. Split pea soup. SPLIT PEA SOUP. There has been a real injustice happening in kitchens across this great planet, and the injustice is this: people are out here making split pea soup that tastes like a sad green carpet. Sad. Sad green carpet soup. It's a disgrace. It's an embarrassment. The kind of thing that makes you want to throw your spoon across the room and order a pizza, and I love pizza, pizza is tremendous, but pizza is NOT split pea soup, and we're making soup today.

Now listen. I've had more split pea soup than any human being on Earth — I had people look it up, the numbers are STAGGERING, food chemists have run the math — and the real split pea soup, the GREATEST split pea soup, the one I'm about to give you, is thick, it's smoky, it sticks to the back of the spoon like the spoon owes it money. That's the test. That's the ONLY test. If your spoon stands up in the soup, you've done it right. If your spoon falls over and weeps quietly, you've made a broth, and a broth is not a soup, a broth is a SOUP TRAINEE, and we are not running a trainee program here at BiglyEats.

The secret — and most cookbooks won't tell you this, they're afraid of pork, they hedge, they suggest 'a smoked turkey leg' which is a CRIME against split pea soup — the secret is a smoked ham hock. A real one. With the bone. The bone is where the magic lives. The bone is doing more work than any single person in your office. Believe me.

This is a soup that FIXES you. You've had a long day, the world is loud, your phone is buzzing with seventeen notifications from apps you didn't even install, sad apps, sad notifications — you sit down with a bowl of this soup and a hunk of crusty bread and suddenly the world is QUIET. The soup does that. The soup is medicine. The soup is therapy you don't have to book. And it freezes beautifully, which means you make a giant pot on Sunday and eat like a king for a week. That's value. That's what we do here. Save me a piece.