Nestegg soup

Every time José sees me carefully spoon some leftovers into a freezer bag and carefully label it, he smiles fondly, the way someone might who sees a puppy bury a bone.
I don´t care, not even when he says I must have been a squireel in a former life. My freezer is my safety net. That stash of leftovers that will carry me through any situation, or almost.
Take last Sunday. We had gone to bed at five a.m. on the Saturday. The wedding revels were of the highest order, and I went into the spirit of the thing very thoroughly, even unto smoking a Cuban cigar, and drinking vast quantities of champagne.
We woke at nine thirty, and by eleven were in the family car, driving back the 541 kilometers back to Madrid.
By the time we arrived, I was something vaguely resembling a human being that was coming apart at the seams. I needed sustenance, and I needed it fast.
I rummaged around, and found chicken stock in the fridge. The freezer yielded a single portion of espinacas con garbanzos .
I put both in a pan, left the frozen lump to melt/thaw in the heating stock, added a dollop of ketchup and some salt, and went about the business of unpacking.
By the time I had untangled my tights from my heels, and sorted out the makeup from the toothpaste tubes, the soup was ready. It hit the exact spot, being hot and nourishing but not too heavy.
The siesta afterwards almost restored me to health. Two episodes of Sex&the city later, I had arrived at the stage where I wanted a hit of something more robust and greasy.
Further foraging unearthed brown bread and roast tomatoes in the freezer. The fridge had onion jam and eggs, so all that remained to be done was a rendition of these scrambled eggs, creamy and buttery.
At times like these, the last thing you want is to experiment with new recipes.
Today I am fully recovered.
(M, I hope you are, too. I think in the future we´d better stop chasing the waiters with the champagne, and let the mountain come to Mohamed)