I recently stepped up to reclaim my title as Soup Diva-master of mirepoix, sorceress of stock, musician in the kettle-spoon band. Soup is magical; it is, in and of itself, an entire meal served in a bowl; a feast with the addition a green salad and crusty bread. Soup loves to socialize, simmering over a low burner on the stove or in a crockpot on the counter, surrounded by family and friends as they fill their bowls, theirs stomachs, their hearts. It listens as they share stories, fueling the conversation with a fragrant breeze.
Soup loves to be savored, appreciated, and acknowledged for its contribution. I know this because, in our house, soup makes an almost daily appearance. The love that radiates from our bowls fills the room, as my son and I share the first samplings of a fresh batch. Today we are savoring a garlic and herb laden Italian vegetable potage, put together this morning after discovering that he had finished off the corn chowder last night after I turned in. After the first bite, he looked at me and said, “This isn’t gonna last very long,” smiling as he ladled a bit more in his bowl (he says that every time!). That’s okay, there’s always another batch formulating in my head. Hmm, maybe chicken?