In praise of soup

Memories... plus recipe for courgette soup with mascarpone & pesto

Who doesn’t randomly look up names of old friends on Facebook? During rare moments of boredom, I too have succumbed to such futility. The boy who gave me butterflies in my stomach my entire freshman year had grown into a heavily tattooed caricature of Popeye. Bulging muscles frighten me, and so rather than getting stuck in volleyball nets while staring in his direction, I would probably run the other way if I saw him today. Not that the chances of that happening are particularly big, considering he lives an ocean away (and I am happily married: 24 years last Friday).

One of my best childhood friends, a wispy girl with golden hair that reached her bottom and swung to and fro as she raced down the block on white rollerskates with red wheels, had lost her brother in a motorcycle accident. I don’t remember his name, only that everyone called him ‘Junior,’ so I gather he must’ve been named after his father. Foolish childhood quarrels ended my friendship with his sister on a sour note, but my heart broke when I found out about her loss.

And then I came across a picture of Carol. 

Carol lived in my building and was a few years younger and about a whole head smaller. She often knocked on my door after school, asking my mother if I was home and if I could go outside and play. I would follow her out to the street, and we would jump rope or play hopscotch until one of us would make a mad dash into the corner candy store and come back with a bagful of Swedish Fish. When the other kids saw us with the haul, they would pounce on it like seagulls, grubby hands taking turns reaching into the bag, so that the bright-red gummies would be devoured in mere seconds. We did the same when they had candy or big bags of Doritos.

Sometimes Carol stayed at my house, and we would do each other’s hair, chatting and giggling on my bedroom floor. I had thick, dark tresses, which she brushed, braided or twirled into ridiculous little buns she’d pin to the side of my head. Carol’s hair was dirty blonde, cut into a bob and infused with the scent of cigarette smoke. It was so fine that the comb would glide through it in an instant. I couldn’t do much with Carol’s hair except pull it to the side with colorful plastic clips. I found one of those clips, a yellow one, the other day while I was packing things into boxes for the second-hand shop. I kept it, of course.

One time, while my mother had a huge pan of tripe soup blipping away on the stove, Carol came to the door and without hesitation, my mother let her in. The air was thick and sour, and I was mortified. By some strange miracle, however, Carol didn’t seem to notice, and we spent the afternoon playing as usual.

My mother’s tripe soup, I should point out, is the nostalgic tang of my youth.

A classic in Colombia, and at my house, it was what we ate on special occasions or weekends, when my mother was in the mood to make an effort. My mother wasn’t much of a cook (I grew up on bland meat, rice, potatoes and beans), but she had a few, humble dishes that she could prepare with near culinary artistry. In my enthusiasm, I have tried (and failed) to recreate her tuna salad, which she served over hot rice, and her rich lentil soup with beefy broth and diced potatoes. The flavor of childhood memories cannot be replicated, no matter the skill of the cook. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t bothered with mondongo, as the soup is officially called. The other being that my husband considers offal (with the exception of the liver that makes its way into French pâté) dog food. Cooking tripe alone, which releases a sour, offensive odor, would inevitably nauseate him. 

When my mother called out to ask who wanted soup, Carol happily (and very enthusiastically) accepted. As much as I loved that stinky soup, I was convinced Carol would have a spoon and quickly push the bowl away, leaving me to finish the rest. It happened before when she decided she didn’t care for my mother’s arroz con pollo (chicken with rice). But to my surprise, Carol did not have much mind for me as she sat there with her head hanging over the bowl, greedily shoveling one spoon of mondongo after the other into her mouth. She polished off that soup, and when she was done, she didn’t hesitate to ask for more.

I immediately recognized Carol while scrolling through Facebook profiles. She still had a shy, sweet face, and I could almost hear her gentle voice. Carol had married a boy I went to elementary school with, and they had four beautiful sons. A joy that did not last, because she lost her life to cancer at only 38. Though I hadn’t talked to her since I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, the news – and the unfairness of life sometimes – made me very upset. A flood of memories, of Carol, of that soup and of my childhood, rushed through my head. 

The restorative qualities of soup are well known. We eat chicken soup when we’re sick or slurp up a bowl of instant noodles when we’ve had a hard day and can’t be bothered to cook. For me, however, it seems that soup is inextricably connected to all kinds of memories.

That horrible cabbage soup of my teenage years (when I was trying just about every ridiculous diet out there in an attempt to look like Kate Moss). The Slime Soup I made every Halloween when my daughter was still living at home. (It’s a Nigella Lawson recipe. Nigella Lawson is part of the reason you’re reading my work. She inspired me to go into culinary journalism.)

The cans of Campbell’s Soup which sustained me during my first year of college in New Jersey. Making mushroom soup in early autumn with my best friend. The first bouillabaisse of the summer at a little bistro by the harbor. And Tessa’s courgette soup.

I met Tessa and her husband, Jean-Claude, years ago in Duras, and though our friendship was short and they both moved away, I will never forget Tessa’s soup. It inspired one of the recipes in My Heart’s Home: Memories & Recipes of France.

What follows is an excerpt from that book and, of course, the recipe for that wonderful soup.

Memorable meal in Duras
One of the most memorable meals I have ever been invited to took place years ago in Duras; a barbecue hosted by a lovely family we had met there. 

We were expected for the apéritif at seven in the evening. The weather had been somewhat cloudy that day, so there was definitely a chance that we would have to postpone our plans. Luckily, by the time we had to leave, the dark clouds had cleared, and we arrived at Tessa and Jean-Claude’s doorstep, wine and chocolates in hand, and very much looking forward to an evening of outdoor dining à la campagne. 

We took a seat at the large wooden table in the garden as Tessa brought out some crackers and nuts for us to munch on with our Pastis. While she darted back and forth between the kitchen and garden, we engaged in conversation with the chatty Jean-Claude who told us that he had just built the terrace we were sitting at and about all his other future building plans. The children happily frolicked about, grabbing some peanuts here and there and asking when dinner would be ready. I remember feeling very lucky that evening. I had always secretly hoped to be invited to dinner with a family in France, and I knew this meal was going to be great, even before Tessa had a chance to delight us with her culinary skills. 

Dinner started with a board of sliced pâté accompanied by tiny, sweet cornichons and a small jar of onion confit, perhaps the best accompaniment to any charcuterie. I was given a knife and instructed to cut rounds from a crusty baguette. In the meantime, Jean-Claude opened a bottle of the local Sauvignon Blanc. The night was young, and the conversation was as light as our spirits as we toasted to the good life and good food.

The next course was a bright courgette soup, creamy yet light enough to let the flavor of the summer courgettes shine through. Tessa served it in colorful, shallow bowls and garnished each portion with a vivid orange nasturtium blossom. We laughed and made jokes as she told us how to suck out the nectar from the stem. The soup was so exquisite and delicate that we almost forgot that we had actually been invited to a barbecue. A six-course, very French barbecue!

After the soup, Jean-Claude busied himself grilling an assortment of delicately marinated skewered meats, and in the meantime, Tessa set out bowls of bean and pasta salads. We joyfully ate, washing down our meal with glasses that were never allowed to go empty, and when the skies grew darker, we lit candles and talked about pursuing dreams, about letting go of fears and about taking risks. At that moment, the sultry evening air, my beloved France, the good company and the gorgeous food were pure, sheer bliss.

When the cheese platter came out, Jean-Claude and I discussed our appreciation for stinky cheeses, snails and other French delicacies. Dessert was a perfect (and very refreshing) culmination to a lovely evening. We enjoyed sunny, orange slices of Charentais melon. Like the courgette soup, the melon was a delicious reflection of the summer’s bounty. Tessa told us that she had shopped for most of the produce at the market that morning and that some came from a village farmer.

I will always have fond memories of that evening. While being served seared foie gras on brioche might impress me, I am more in awe of people like Tessa and Jean-Claude, people who are passionate about food, but mostly, about life. That meal was more than a barbecue. It was a feast prepared with love. Love for the food and for the enjoyment that comes with eating it in good company.

Courgette soup with mascarpone & pesto
A velvety soup full of bright summer flavors and inspired by the one Tessa made for us that evening. Serve it with garlic toast topped with chopped tomatoes and fragrant basil.

Serves 4

Ingredients:
2 tbsps olive oil

1 shallot, finely chopped

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

3 courgettes (or 6 small baby courgettes), cubed

450ml vegetable bouillon

125ml dry white wine

3 tbsps mascarpone

2 tbsps pesto

Salt (preferably fleur de sel) and fresh pepper

Instructions:
Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pan and gently cook the onions and the garlic for approx. 5 minutes. Increase the heat and add the courgettes. Allow the courgettes to cook, tossing them as you go, for approx. 2-3 minutes. Add the wine and let it bubble for about a minute. Add the water, bouillon, and salt and pepper to taste. Let everything come to the boil and immediately reduce the heat. Cover the pan and let the soup simmer for 20 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the mascarpone and the pesto until well incorporated. Purée the soup in a blender or with a handheld mixer, taste, adjust the seasoning and serve.