I ’m alone in my canning kitchen for the first time all day. The children are napping. Carrots pile up behind me as my chopper thuds and dumps and chews through the mountain in the sink, becoming quart after quart of vegetables ready to dump into a boiling pot of broth for a quick soup. Like money in the bank, the recipe says. And I love soup.
My day started early with food and children. One on the counter, one at my side on a chair. Helping. Asking questions. Wanting to stir.
It’s 3:30 now, and I leave my canning kitchen in a mess. It’s my turn to send dinner to an ill friend in the community. My mind goes to her as the beef browns in the pan. Confined to a bed while her children reach adolescence. I ache for them.
4:30 and the casserole is ready for the oven. I realize there’s not enough for our own dinner, and I feel as drab as the smoke-clouded sky. Sandwiches? Again? Maybe. I take the fussing baby out of her high chair and a cookbook out of the cupboard. Soup? White chili? I get out a can of Great Northern Beans. The only chicken I have is also in cans. It feels bland.
Then I see it: Tomato Basil Soup. The picture shows a bowlful of creamy red-orange soup with flecks of green and a pile of seasoned croutons beside it. Just seeing the picture has me smelling the warm comforting scent of basil. I want that soup. How I want that soup.
I block out the peripheral noise and read what I need. I do OK until I get to the tomato juice. The only tomato product I have in the house is about a dozen tiny to medium-sized tomatoes brought in from my own spindly plants. I get out another cookbook and find another tomato soup recipe. This one calls for canned tomato chunks. I read on. Place in crock pot on low for 6–7 hours… I glance at the clock. It’s a little past crock pot time. But I need that soup. I desperately need that soup.
I grab a bowl and head for the basement, talking to my sister on the phone, telling the children to stay away from the stairs. I need carrots. I have those all chopped. I have no celery but I think golden beets would be better anyway. I set the bowl on the table, and I hear a crash at the top of the stairs. I hang up and run.
A bench has tipped over on the 3-year-old’s foot. He rocks and sobs, and I pick him up and hold him. He’s not quite as big as he sometimes thinks he is. I put a Band-Aid on the spot of blood seeping from his toe and comfort the scared baby. I sit and hold them both and think maybe we’ll have to have sandwiches after all.
5:10 and Daddy’s home.
5:30 and he takes both children to deliver the dinner hot out of the oven for the sick neighbor. Take your time, I tell him.
I start where I left off. A large handful of carrots. A smaller one of beets. Three cups of fresh chopped tomatoes. I get out my flower-shaped 2-quart Dutch oven, just right for our small family, and put the tomatoes on to simmer. In a small kettle the carrots and beets begin to steam. The tomatoes start to soften, and I keep them stirred. I add a generous amount of chopped onion and feel the tension of the day start to ease.
The tomatoes reach the juicing stage, and I grab my immersion blender. Within moments I have a lovely tomato purée. A large glob of soft butter melted into the carrot mixture turns them a frothy brown. My mind is focused, and my hands know this dance. I whir the blender through the carrots and beets and add a partial cup of flour. Anxiously I whisk. This is the crucial part. As I add the thickened mixture to the tomato purée it turns that beautiful orange-red color. I smile.
A cup of chicken stock turns the soup the perfect consistency. Now for the spices. A lavish spoonful of dried basil. Half a teaspoon of garlic powder and salt. I stir and taste. I add a tablespoon of cane sugar and a few shakes of black pepper. Add cream last, says the recipe. I get my heavy pitcher of raw creamy milk from the fridge and poise for a moment above the soup. I pour with my right hand and whisk with my left until the red is slightly creamy. I turn the burner on low and put on the lid.
A fresh loaf of sourdough bread in the pantry is the perfect side. I spread butter and garlic salt and turn on the broiler. The butter crackles and turns brown. The aroma of garlic and basil mingles in the air.
When my husband and children return home the table is set and a candle is burning. We sit and eat bowlful after bowlful of that wonderful soup, accompanying each with a slice of warm bread. The 3-year-old is quiet and the baby only cries for more soup.
My canning kitchen might see me early the next morning but the magical moment of now, anchored by a soul-feeding soup, holds no fear. We are grateful.
