Right now, my husband and children are sound asleep in a tent 50 feet from our kitchen door, where the air is cool and crisp. I wrapped myself around them, whispered (harmless) ghost stories and watched the fire crackle against the peaked, nylon ceiling before their eyes shuttered, releasing me to slink away... to put life back in order, to wash dishes, and set some dough to proof for the morning. Sometimes I envy the freedom of childhood, the sweetness of slumber not wrought with a list of to-dos, but more so I love my role as the magic maker—the one burning the midnight oil for tomorrow’s gain. Because it’s all moving fast: their childhood, this fall—already. I think that’s why I love cooking so much, it’s the only thing I can grasp to slow things down—to put a meal in front of them, to sit across the table from a girl who’s lost all signs of “early childhood”, from a boy who’s legs spring out from his pant legs again and again, inching us from babyhood to boyhood, ever quicker.
What has any of this to do with this soup? My dough is proofing and the bonfire is still flickering so here I sit, writing this recipe up for you as I promised I would, because all I know from where I stand is that maybe, just maybe, the right pot of soup can stop time for all of us—if only for a moment.Read More