Some time ago I was fiendishly addicted to the Hungarian Mushroom Soup served by my (formerly) local vegetarian cafe. So much so that I convinced the esteamed Rev. Carle to get me a copy of the recipe (as he worked there at the time.) Under cover of darkness we rendezvoused and he gave me the cipher, hastily scribbled on the back of an order ticket. I spirited it back to my house to pour over the intricacies of the recipe before I would undertake the alchemical soup brewing. But when I got it home I was confused by the notation of the recipe. A QUART of sour cream? 4 OUNCES of paprika? HOW MANY POUNDS OF MUSHROOMS??? Then it hit me. The yield of the recipe could be measured in gallons. The recipe, in fact, could have originated on the plains of my wife's ancestral homeland to feed whole regiments of shivering Hungarian soldiers. Or in the basements of the freedom fighters serving the last hot meal to a group of revolutionaries who would stand against the might of the quickly approaching russian tank battalions.

I never made the soup, though I still have the tattered and barley legible recipe. It is times like these I wish I had a scanner.