“When times are terrible, soup is the answer.” That’s a quote from the bestselling children’s fairy story The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo. There are two other fantastic, truth-filled soup quotes in the same book. “There ain’t a body, be it mouse or man, that ain’t made better by a little soup.” And my favourite: “There ain’t no point in making soup unless others eat it. Soup needs another mouth to taste it, another heart to be warmed by it.”
At this time of year, with the dark early evenings, a distinct nip in the air and Food Month in full swing at The Irish Times, my thoughts will often turn to soup. I have the opposite of SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, that low-level depression some people experience in late autumn and winter. As you might know, I’m a tad contrary, and this time of year has always made me more glad than sad. I light candles at dinnertime, curl up in blankets in front of the telly, and I make giant pots of soup so that when people come home from school or work, there is something comforting waiting on the stove.
This is about as Tradwife as I ever get, mind you, making soup for other mouths and hearts. I am going through a big tomato soup phase at the moment. It’s the best soup, and I will not be debating this with anyone. Other days you might find me whipping up a sweet potato soup with a hint of curry, or a thick vegetable broth, but mostly I am making cream of tomato soup. Tomatoes, onions, water and a hint of cream. It’s heaven.
My friend Eda Sagarra, an Emerita professor of German at Trinity College Dublin, once sent me a draft of a book she was writing about soup with all her favourite recipes. I’m a garlic fan, so I am definitely making her cream of garlic soup at some point this winter. She takes a kilogram or so of floury potatoes, around 350g of carrots and six fat cloves of garlic. You finely peel and chop the vegetables. “Ideally,” Eda says, “as small as what recipes call ‘matchsticks’, though one doesn’t have to take this too literally”, and fry them in 3 tablespoons of olive oil. Be careful not to let them colour. Add about 3 litres of water in a saucepan, a bunch of thyme and a small bay leaf (“don’t be tempted to put in more, as bay leaves have a powerful flavour”). Simmer with the lid on for about two hours, blend as finely as possible, reheat and add four tablespoons of cream before serving.
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Her pea and coriander soup is easy peasy, probably the simplest in the book. Take a packet of frozen peas, cook until tender and add to two medium onions that have been gently fried until translucent. Blend it all, then add a few chilli flakes, “the number to be determined by how fiery or otherwise you like your soup”, plenty of freshly ground black pepper and, at the last minute, a small bunch of finely chopped coriander. I’d leave the coriander out if I were making this for my mother, who has an aversion to that particular herb. She would be more of a watercress woman. I’ll be making a watercress soup at some point too because it’s been appearing in Dunnes more regularly, bright green packets of it from McCormack’s Family Farm. A most underestimated leaf, my mother says.
It was from Eda, who is 93 and still making delicious soups, that I learned The Stone Soup folklore yarn. It involved a mendicant friar who managed to turn a mean woman into a kindly soul by showing her how to prepare a soup made of stones. The woman had previously been refusing the beggars who came to her door despite having plenty of food.
The friar always carried a stone in his knapsack and entered the woman’s kitchen, saying he just needed some boiling water to make his soup from the stone. So he set about making the soup, all the while adding any vegetables and poultry to hand in the woman’s well-stocked kitchen. The friar explained that stone soup only worked if shared with others in need. A thought-provoking tale for our times.
When I asked friends for their favourite soups, Simon said: “Butternut squash, blended to a velvety consistency. Topped with crunchy seeds, sour cream and pea shoots.” Willie offered: “Leek and potato, foolproof, pure velvet comfort food. Or celeriac, now that they are starting to appear in the German discounters.”
Orla told me that she makes soup for everyone in her office on the last Tuesday of the month before pay-day. She bought a big lightweight pot called Bertha for this exact purpose. There’s a vote on the Monday before to choose what gets made and dished out from Bertha. Last time it was white bean, kale and artichoke soup. “Good gear,” said Orla.
I’m not saying soup can fix everything that ails you, but there is something about soup that can make even the darkest days feel better. A soupcon better, if you will. And when it comes to soup, I always will.
