And God Said, Let There Be Soup

I made soup yesterday. I made so much soup that if a family of fifteen bears had stopped by, there would have been enough for all.
There are two of us living here.
Why do I do that? When I'm making something, why do I go back to the refrigerator for two more carrots, three more stalks of celery? Why two onions, why four chicken breasts? Why an entire bunch of cilantro and two limes, a whole head of garlic and four tomatoes? Why two handfuls of brown rice and one of quinoa?
We ate soup until we could eat no more. I packed Mr. Moon a lunch for today with soup. Then I ladled soup into a restaurant-sized leftover container and put it into the refrigerator.
We love soup.
Soup is good.
But too much is too much.
It is as if by making so much soup, I could replace the demons in my heart with salty, garlicky broth. It is if I believed that the snakes in my brain would be seduced out with lime and cilantro bubbling in a pot. It is if I thought that the more chickens sacrificed and boned and bled the better the spell would work. It is as I assumed that the organic carrots could strengthen my blood against its weakness.
It is as if I imagined that soup could cure my ills and the more the better.
It as if I were crazy, I think, looking at all that soup in my refrigerator this morning, wondering just who in hell is going to eat all that soup.