Don't rain on my parade

You know, in theory I like rain. But I'd like it a whole lot more if I did not have a rift in one of my rainboots.

Of course, to staunch the flow of self-pity driven largely by the squelching sounds produced every time one steps with one's right foot, one uses bread soup. It helped that I conveniently had half a loaf of day-old bread lying around. I'm not sure from whence bread soup originates, but I've seen Tuscan, Portuguese, and North African variants. This one had the usual bread pureed into the broth--bear with me, the texture is more pleasant than it sounds like it would be--plus more vegetables than customarily included.



Said vegetables included this deformed mushroom:



I topped the final product with strips of bread crust and chunks of Parmesan.



Self-pity: banished.