Tomorrow I will make a soup. That’s a shrug of a declaration, I know. Hardly sensational. Not exactly newsworthy.
But that’s soup for ya: dutiful and long-suffering, not really one for the headlines. There when a cook needs to just feel like a cook. Yes, soup will be happening in this very kitchen tomorrow, in the quiet way in which soup is often made.
Soup because I have advance notice that tomorrow is going to be a doozy, a dawn-to-dusk succession of too much to do. Soup because the last parsnip is worried it’s been overlooked for being too gangly. Because I didn’t intend for the celery to languish. Because the carrot twins are ready for their marching orders and the assembly of onions is feeling more like a crowd, so many arrived in my last co-op box.
Soup because soup feels like winter and because, at the end of the day, the only thing that needs to be sweating in my kitchen is that onion, chopped and thrown in the pot with minced garlic.