Here it is: a jar of borscht from the dark recesses of my cupboard. (I didn’t want to hold work-buddy Annie to her promise of cooking me a batch … she’s even busier than me, with two kids under five and a seemingly unending series of small and large disasters.) It wasn’t the nightmare I thought was waiting for me all these weeks. But that doesn’t mean I liked it. Way sweeter than expected — and I have yet to meet a sweet soup I can stomach.