Heirloom Soup

There were exactly two types of canned, prepared soup that were allowed in our household, when I was a child:  Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom and Campbell’s Tomato.  One would be forgiven for thinking that this implied a repertoire of casseroles, but usually they were just served as lunch, relatively unadorned (until my experimental teenage efforts) and paired with simple sandwiches.  These were not the only soups to be had at our house, of course.  My mother made from scratch: chicken noodle (in which she inexplicably put anise seeds), beef barley, oxtail, split pea with ham, and a sort of crazy variation on minestrone that used both beans and pasta as well as leftover vegetables. 

I think it was the vast array of ingredients and haphazard-seeming approach of minestrone that gradually morphed into a fine thing that we called “Heirloom Soup” but, to be fair, those little freeze-dried packets of Knorr were also responsible.  In those days, the pioneer days of freeze-dried cuisine, the chalky ingredients did not reconstitute terribly well, and were usually far too salty.  So, the enterprising cook would naturally add a little – or a lot – more water than was called for and then, facing the fact that the flavours of the soup had been stretched too far, commence rummaging in the fridge for some tasty leftover to add both flavour and texture to the soup.  The soup eventually would grow to a gargantuan size from all of the leftovers, and the result would be far more soup than we could eat at one sitting. 

Never a family to waste food, the leftover Franken-soup would be put aside until it could be beefed up (or perhaps chickened up) with leftovers from a meal yet to come.  The standing joke became that there was only, and had only ever been, one pot of soup, that morphed depending on the nature of the dinners around it.  The bottom of the pot would be unrecognizable by even the most generous soup etymology, each spoon revealing a cacophony of noodles, rice, potatoes, beans, miscellaneous vegetables, and bits of meat.   My mother started to joke that the soup was in the process of becoming an heirloom, and that it was likely the sole dowry we girls could expect.  In truth – especially in the winter, when a bowl of soup was very much the remedy to outdoor chills – we polished off the bottom of the pot fairly regularly, and the whole cycle would start again with whatever soup the cook felt like making.   

I became accustomed enough to these concoctions that a single-themed soup became something of a rare luxury.  How delightful to have a smooth and silky carrot soup with overtones of earthy cumin or the sweet-sharp scent of ginger!  How astonishing to find chicken to be the only meat lurking in a chicken-vegetable soup!  As I learned to cook, I gradually branched out into regional specialties – the discovery of a borscht that didn’t involve minced up leftovers gave me a new appreciation for the soup classics – and I found myself exploring the possibilities of traditional soup standards from around the world. 

The first time I ever had Vietnamese pho’ was the innocuously named “beef noodle soup” at a branch of Little Saigon Restaurant which has been long defunct.  At the time, I was on a very restricted budget that did not allow for eating in restaurants more than once a month, or so, and it was actually many years before I got around to trying pho’ again.  I was slightly unwell at the time, languishing under a head cold that left me malleably indifferent to my surroundings, when a friend dragged me out for “soup to cure you.”  Now, perhaps it was merely the point at which my cold was about to dissipate anyway, but even so I am convinced that the rich, fragrant pho’ with its liberal helping of hot sauce and hot peppers performed a vanquishing act worthy of an exorcist.  To this day, if I feel a little stuffy, it’s not chicken soup I reach for, it’s pho’. 

My most recent soup-interest is in French root vegetable soups.  Usually creamy and laden with butter, there is as depth of flavour there that represents everything that a classic soup should really be about: warm, comforting, rich-tasting.  In two recent outings to nice French or French influenced restaurants, I’ve neglected to order the soup special – an omission that my companion didn’t make.  Thus, I’ve found myself sitting across the table from silky parsnip soup (I know!) topped with a gingerbread tuile and a citrus drizzle or across from butternut-celeriac soup garnished prettily with finely minced red bell pepper and fennel bulb and finished with cognac.  Once again, I kick myself for thinking that a soup starter would be too much food.   So, because my dining companion is gracious, I am granted spoonsful of soup – just enough to make me really regret not ordering it myself – and a symphony of “Mmmmmm” sounds. 

So it is no wonder that I had soup on my mind, when I was recently invited out for lunch at a classic French restaurant, and I hit pay dirt:  The soup du jour was a roasted root vegetable soup with what was promised as a hint of curry, and from the main plate selections, the elusive pot-au-feu.  I simply couldn’t resist!  The soup was rich, creamy and rewarding, although I am certain that there was more than a hint of curry.  It was also a reasonable serving, so I didn’t feel as though I were going to waddle the rest of the day from overeating – that is, until the pot-au-feu arrived. 

Pot-au-feu (there is an upscale version called boeuf à la ficelle) is a simply prepared dish where the meat (often knuckle or brisket), marrow-bone and vegetables are left in very large chunks (or whole, in the case of baby vegetables) and simmered long and slow in a sparsely seasoned broth, giving up some of their flavours into the liquid.  It is served with a dish of Dijon mustard, coarse sea salt, and little cornichon pickles.  The true flavours of the meat and vegetables comes through wonderfully, and it is a filling dish.  This particular example lived up to the dish’s reputation for hearty food prepared with exquisite simplicity and not a hint of blandness.  

It is spring, now, and thoughts of rich, buttery soups and hearty stews are gradually slipping away from my thoughts, as I peruse the early asparagus in the market, and eye the reddish tomatoes suspiciously.  Fortified this past winter with creamy root vegetable delights, I am starting to think about lighter foods to go with the coming warmer weather.  Every once in a while, though, the thermometer hits zero and I think about the Heirloom soup of my childhood, about coming in with chilly hands to a hot bowl of mystery soup that took care of the leftovers from the dinner table without waste, and provided warm, delicious meals and a sort of legacy.