Not My Mother's Soup ... Or Is It?
Chapter 7 of Why I Saved Those Cookbooks
Soup may not be your go-to at Valentine’s Day, but I have a husband who smiles and rolls with this ongoing adventure here at “Why I Saved Those Cookbooks” so he didn’t blink when I offered to make the soup of his heart’s desire for Valentine’s Day.
And his heart’s desire? Cue the violins, Cupid’s arrow, a drumroll! The big reveal is … vegetable soup.
I know, right? What’s next? Vanilla wafers for dessert? But turns out the soup he wanted is “that vegetable soup you make,” which is sort-of minestrone mixed with whatever I have on hand. Tricked out veggie soup, if you will.
Like many people, I learned this keep-adding-stuff technique growing up, although my mom’s culinary foundation for most things was onion, celery and bay leaf. That happy trio perfumed the kitchen of my childhood.
Casseroles? No Can Do
At least that’s how I remembered it. Okay, it was a long time ago, but those aroma memories twinkled in my brain this recently as I chopped, sauteed and stirred, so I’m going to let them sparkle and simmer for a while. I invite you to close your eyes and think back to the favorite food smells of your childhood. We’ll wait …
I hope that was pleasant and didn’t trigger a tuna noodle flashback. Anyway, the soup I made will keep me smiling for a while, because wow, there’s a heap of it. Which is excellent because I was inspired to try this big-batch recipe when a friend whose husband is headed for surgery asked about casseroles she could have on hand for quick meals during his recovery.
Alas, I’m lousy at casseroles, maybe because of my family’s diner biz background. Incoming teachable moment here, kids! Diners were fast food before the advent of cheap burger chains. Soup was among their mainstays — ready and quick — along with cottage cheese and cantaloupe, which I still consider an a-okay meal.
Anyway, we ate soup, especially navy bean, and beef vegetable with barley, served diner style in a bowl atop a plate, what we in the biz call an “underliner.” Gotta set the saltines somewhere, after all.
Of course, for Valentine’s Day, I wanted to snazzy up my produce-drawer veg soup, but the only all-soup book I have on the messy shelf was published by Sunset and regular readers may recall my recent disaster with kumquat chicken salad from the same cookbook series.
Let’s Turnip the Fun
Nevertheless, in the spirit of second chances, I chose Winter Minestrone on page 38 of “Sunset’s Homemade Soups” (1985). The authors explained that minestrone means “big soup” in Italian, so it would surely be filling. Plus, it called for a turnip, I can’t recall the last time I bought a turnip and that sure sounded fun. (Do I need to get out more?)
As usual, I made substitutions based on pantry supplies – orzo instead of mini shell pasta and chard rather than kale because the stuff is going bananas in the garden and I think any minute now it will envelop the whole house if we don’t get cracking on it.
That all worked well, although the orzo might have been too rice-like and starchy. But my husband was happy. “It’s good. It tastes like your soup. You know, soup that’s almost stew.”
It’s true. My soups are meal-like. I always reach for the fat onion, the chunkiest potato. And in this instance, the orzo probably thickened the works.
But it’s the other part. “It tastes like your soup.” How did that happen? It was a new recipe to me, yet I also admit I thought it tasted a lot like my mother’s soup, which I bet she learned from her father, who made the diner soups so long ago. The circle of soup, ala The Lion King? Epigenetic soup embedded in my DNA? Honest, I don’t spit in it.
Memory Soup?
Whatever it is, I imagine many of you know this experience. You bite into something, and your olfactory memories kick in and off you go. It makes up for the times things fall short, like a certain thumb print cookie recipe I keep trying to replicate.
But when it hits, you know. You connect with the most important ingredient of the recipe, the one that was never written down, that smidge of something that sticks in the memory and heart, or our rose-colored imaginations, but even that’s okay.
It’s comfort food. And who doesn’t need a little of that?
Cook’s Notes
Some people cook their pasta separately from the soup broth and add it in at the last to reduce starchiness, which might be a smart idea here.
Make again? Absolutely. The book also offers recipes for condiment soups to serve at a party with half a dozen toppings so everyone can customize. If you know, you know that is classic “Sunset Magazine” style. (And why I kept this cookbook.)
By the way, my husband has a sweet vinyl collection. Condiment soup and record spinning? Boomers, assemble!
I think “it tastes like your soup” is another way of saying “I love you.” The only soup my mom made regular was split pea, but she makes the most amazing chili!
I just love your writing, Dawn - it’s a lot like the soup you describe, full of interesting things from the crisper, some hearty turnips, and the fundamental goodness of celery and onion which starts nearly every soup I have ever made.