Cooking is the way I Work, quietly and alone, or raucously with those I love.
When I’m in need of restoration, I make soup. When my body aches, soup. When my heart hurts, I make soup. When I have lost, there is soup. This particular soup is half acknowledgement of the dying world, and half celebration of its bounty. Sure, I could make it in June -- but it wouldn’t be the same. Fall is when the world is singing its loudest, to me, inviting me to take in every last ounce of warmth and joy I can, before it’s time to huddle up against the snow, and sleep like seedlings in the dark, waiting for the sun.
Harvest time is golden -- and so is this soup.
Begin with a few winter squash (I used butternut this time, but acorn, kabocha, pumpkin... they all roast beautifully), scrubbed, halved, de-seeded. It’s all right if you don’t get all the tiny fibers out -- roasting handles most of the texture issues. Be gentle with yourself, here. There’s no rush in this Work, no stress.
Gild a baking sheet with a generous pour of olive oil, spread it around with your hands, and lay their round, full bodies out, cut side down. Put in a 400F oven for a good hour. This is a chance for rest. Reading a good book, maybe, or watching the birds at the feeder, or checking for chicken eggs, or listening to music while you put your feet up. Give yourself a chance to reflect on all you have gotten done, not all you have left to do.
When the skins have browned, and the squashes are soft, and their sugars are caramelizing on the baking tray, turn the oven off and let them sit for awhile, until they’re cool enough for you to handle.
Peel them, if the skins will come off easily, but if not, scrape out the flesh and set it aside. Marvel at the way there is hardly anything else in the world this color except the fall outside. This glorious orange gold that will stain your fingertips and nail beds and cutting boards, if you let it, to remind you of the richness of your efforts, and the way things sometimes stay, even if you’re not expecting it.
In a Dutch oven, soften two cups of sweet onions and a tablespoon or two of minced garlic; let them mingle and marry and glisten. So what if the onions made you cry while chopping them? So what if something else made you cry? What are tears to a heart that knows soup is coming? Let them dry on your face, and stir your pot. Loosen your shoulders, unclench your jaw, breathe in. Breathe out.
When the onions have just gone from soft, translucent and fragrant, when they are just beginning to brown and stick, pour in two quarts of the best chicken stock or chicken soup you have. Something made with carrots, celery, parsley, thyme, and rosemary. Something that makes your mouth water, on its own. You might worry that it will overpower the squash -- don’t. This is no time for worrying. The chicken stock and the squash will transform one another in their absolute union. They’ll transform you.
Add all that lovely winter squash, and let it simmer for an hour. Maybe even two. Let it sit on the stove and fill your heart and your home with the invitation to be hungry. Open your insides. Vulnerability can be anticipation. Good things are coming.
When the squash has begun to break down even further, when everything is bubbling, blend it however you can. A mixer, an immersion blender, a countertop blender, a food processor -- whatever you’ve got. Get it uniform and thick and then pour in a can of evaporated milk, and keep blending. Keep it warmed, if you can, and let yourself go, focusing on working out every last thyme leaf, every last onion.
Standing over the stove with a steaming pot and a spoon is meditative. The Oracle of Delphi wishes she could breathe this in, I know it.
In the end, if you can, pour it through a sieve, press and stir with a rubber spatula, and strain out any last unblended bits -- until you’re left with something that looks a little like you caught the sun in your soup pot, a gold that’s velvet on the tongue, and warm in the chest.
Share it in a bowl, with friends, with family, with bread -- and if you want, add things like roasted chicken, pickled onions, tomato jam, hot sauce, fresh herbs.
Even if this pot is just for you, enjoy the smoothness of it, the perfect silken touch of rich gold, a bounty for both spirit and stomach, and let it warm you against the darkening of the year.
Winter is cold, but beautiful, too, especially with soup.
For @graveyarddirt, @luc3, @satsekhem, @thegodthief, @sycamore, @sagecake, @sparrowhearted, @sparrowinthebranches, and @anothertroy -- I know I’m posting late, but I hope you enjoy the spirit of the work.
