I’m feeling dense and leaden from overindulging on holiday bounty. This could spell trouble, as we’ve still got considerable holiday bounty ahead. Today I craved green. Something light and bright, quick and tasty. My thoughts turned to a favorite soup I used to order often at the Dale Street Cafe in Colorado Springs. That was many years ago. A quick google search shows that the restaurant is still around, although it’s changed owners since I ate there. This soup was inspired by theirs.  

Sweet peas and romaine offer a lovely spring-green counterpoint to heavy holiday fare. Lettuce in soup might sound strange, but trust me, it works. The intense shamrock hue belies a delicate bouquet and subtle flavor. It tastes grassy and sweet and altogether fresh. It was the perfect choice for this, the darkest day of the year.  You could add a little cream at the end for richness, if you’re so inclined. Personally, I love the lightness.

SWEET PEA ROMAINE SOUP

3 tablespoons olive oil
2 shallots, chopped (about a cup and a quarter)
1 12-ounce bag frozen peas, thawed
1 medium head romaine lettuce, sliced into 1-inch strips
1 tablespoon kosher salt
3 cups water
1 tablespoon finely chopped mint leaves
2 tablespoons lemon juice
black pepper to taste

Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add shallots and saute for five minutes.

Add romaine leaves. Cook, stirring regularly, until leaves are completely wilted (about five minutes).

Add peas, water, and salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for ten minutes.

Puree soup in a blender or food processor.

Return soup to pot. Add water if it seems too thick. Add mint leaves and lemon juice. Stir, season to taste with salt and pepper, and serve with a mint leaf garnish.

If you try one recipe from this blog, let it be this Provencal Seafood Stew. It’s a wonder of elegant simplicity. The deep fragrance and perfectly balanced flavors deliver the goods with every mouthful. So frenchy and fabulous is this stew that one bite magically transports me to a sidewalk table at a French bistro, where my understated outfit is offset by the perfect scarf, earrings, and heels. (I have a rich fantasy life. I’ve never had a talent for accessorizing. How do Parisian women do it?)

Not only is this soup drop-dead delicious, it’s also a blue-ribbon work-night recipe. By this I mean your soup is done fifteen minutes from the time you start chopping the onion. I do not exaggerate. The stew is sort of a simple riff on bouillabaisse. (Bouillabaisse purists can just relax. I’m not saying it IS bouillabaisse, I’m just saying it borrows some of the complicated flavors to truly excellent effect.)

The only remotely fussy thing about this recipe is that it calls for two things you may not have on hand. Since I discovered this recipe many years ago, I am never without them. They keep. One is saffron. (It’s cheap at Trader Joe’s.) The other is Pernod, which is an anise-flavored liqueur.

Pernod is the key ingredient that elevates this soup into something really special. If you buy Pernod and don’t like this soup, I will personally refund your money. I’m kidding. But I am truly confident that you won’t regret your purchase, even if you’re not a fan of anise, and even if it seems excessive to buy a whole bottle of booze when the recipe calls for two tablespoons. This is one of those times in life when you must make a leap of faith. Trust me. Your taste buds will thank you. Your loved ones will thank you. Your neighbor who gets a whiff of the soup out the kitchen window will thank you.

I think this stew is best served with a baguette, a flowery French white wine, and a soft, smelly French cheese. And maybe a suave French waiter, if you’ve got one of those handy. You can substitute any kind of fish and shellfish you like. Mussels are a nice addition.

PROVENCAL SEAFOOD STEW – serves four
adapted from a recipe in Cuisine Rapide by Pierre Franey

3 tablespoons olive oil
½ cup finely chopped onion
½ cup finely chopped celery
2 teaspoons minced garlic
½ teaspoon saffron threads, crumbled
1 cup dry white wine
3 cups canned diced tomatoes, with their juice
½ teaspoon dried thyme
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 bay leaf
¾ pound snapper or other fish filet, cut into one-inch cubes
½ pound sea scallops, quartered or bay scallops, whole
2 tablespoons Pernod (or Ricard)
¼ cup chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste

Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, celery, garlic and saffron and sauté for about three minutes.

Add wine, tomatoes, thyme, pepper flakes, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a gentle simmer and cook for five minutes.

Add seafood. Cover and cook for five minutes.

Add Pernod and parsley. Add salt and pepper to taste.

This one goes out to everyone who ever brought food when the chips were down. I may have forgotten to write a note, given everything. I’m sure you were busy. It took forethought. You had to find that recipe, get groceries, and cook. Then you had to transport it all, which can be messy. You probably wondered if you’d ever get your Tupperware back. It was good of you.

Years ago, when my mother was dying, people brought food. There were casseroles and brownies, homegrown tomatoes and pots of soup. I was mystified. Did they really think we could eat, at a time like that? Well, yes. They knew we could. Everyone eventually does, inconceivable as it seems. I felt like a traitor, eating while my irrepressible mother was slipping away. But she would’ve rolled her eyes at that sentiment, and reminded me that life is hard enough without my efforts to make it harder.

Years later, my husband and I welcomed a son. Dinner came to our doorstep every night for weeks, courtesy of friends and neighbors. I wept with thankfulness. I wept a lot in those days, but that’s another story. I can still taste those meals, seasoned as they were with naked gratitude. I missed my Mom. I needed help. And help arrived, wrapped in tinfoil and kindness.

Birth and death are demanding. They just swoop right and in and put their feet up, blithely flicking away the orderly unfolding of our days. We are tender and tired as we attend our loved ones at the beginning and the end. We sing and stroke. We wash and feed. The clock ceases to provide useful information. These are the rhythms of lives, not days. In the midst of these marathons of nurture, gifts of food stand in simple relief. Meals arrive like little missives from the world where the clock still applies, like souvenirs of simpler times. It’s hard to remember simpler times when you’re in the thick of life’s seismic upheavals. Food gives strength, and comfort.

A family friend dropped this soup by for me and my stepfather when my mom was sick. We were dazed by the unfolding loss. My memories of that time are foggy, but I recall thinking this soup was the most delicious thing I ever tasted.  I wouldn’t have thought it possible to even notice a bowl of soup just then, never mind enjoy it. But I savored every bite. It served to remind me that a world outside of sorrow still existed. Life would be there, with all its flavors and delights, when the time came to gather up the fragments of my broken heart and look forward again.

To this day, the complicated interplay of flavors in Tom Kha Gai puts me in mind of nurture, solace, and motherhood. When I know someone with a new baby, or an illness, or a death in the family, this is the dish I most often bring. I pass it on with thanks, for all the grace and sustenance.

I get a lot of requests for this recipe, which is the true measure of any dish’s popularity, if you ask me. This soup somehow manages to be feisty and harmonious at the same time. It’s interesting enough to impress foodie types, but simple and comforting enough to appeal to less adventurous eaters. (You might need to explain to the aforementioned “less adventurous eaters” that the big stalks of lemongrass and discs of ginger floating around in the soup aren’t meant to be eaten. They’re just adding flavor.) Sometimes I throw in cooked basmati rice at the end. That may be some kind of Thai-food no-no, but I find chicken and rice a soothing combination.

THAI CHICKEN AND COCONUT SOUP (TOM KHA GAI)
makes four generous servings

1 stalk lemongrass (Available at most grocery stores these days.)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium onion, diced small
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon Thai red curry paste (Also available at most groceries.)
6 quarter-inch wide slices fresh ginger
3 kaffir lime leaves (Not available at most groceries. I usually substitute ½ teaspoon grated lime peel.)
4 cups chicken stock
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast, sliced with the grain into quarter-inch wide strips.
2 cups shitake mushrooms, stemmed, caps quartered
1 14-ounce can coconut milk (Don’t use low-fat. Trust me. I tried it.)
Juice of two limes (about five tablespoons)
2 tablespoons nam pla (AKA fish sauce, also available in most groceries these days.)
3 green onions, trimmed and sliced into ¼ inch pieces
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro

Trim lemongrass, cut into three pieces about four inches long. Whack the pieces with the flat side of your knife blade to crush slightly.

Heat oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat.

Saute onion and garlic for about two minutes.

Add lemongrass, curry paste, ginger discs, and lime leaf (or peel). Cook, stirring, for three minutes.

Add stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes.

Add coconut milk, chopped chicken and quartered mushroom caps. Cook five minutes, or until chicken is just cooked through.

Add lime juice and nam pla. Taste for balance between nam pla and lime. If one flavor is dominating too much, add a little of the other.

Garnish with green onion and cilantro.

Mushrooms are the enticing bad-boy of the vegetable world. It’s hard to decide if they’re beautiful or ugly, which makes me want to buy them a drink and hear their story. They have all those poisonous cousins, which adds to the intrigue. They walk the line between funk and sophistication. Make them into a luscious soup, and they taste just as complicated and deep as they look.

I had some mushroom kismet. First, a generous friend who hunts mushrooms on misty Oregon mountsides gave us a gorgeous bag of chanterelles. The very next day I was seduced by the sumptuous smell of maitake mushrooms sautéing in butter on a camp stove at the farmer’s market. Free samples. They work. If the universe hasn’t thrown any interesting mushrooms into your path lately, don’t worry. You can buy a few good varieties at most any grocery store. I’m confident this recipe will work with whatever mix of mushrooms you can get your hands on.

Before we get to the recipe, I have a confession. At the risk of ruining my reputation as a lazy, short-cutting, step-skipping cook, I made my own vegetable stock a few weeks ago. Making your own stock is flat fussy. Unless you consider that all you have to do is chop some stuff, sauté, add water, then ignore for an hour. It doesn’t require attention or skill. But it does require forethought, and time.  In my book, that’s a lot to ask, but it turns out it’s worth the effort. It’s seriously bumped up the taste of my soups. I’m making my own vegetable stock from here on out.

What compelled me to get off my unfussy can and make stock? Well, it was a post I read on a vegan blog. I know. What are the odds of me reading a vegan blog? I’m a contender for President of the Society for the Advancement of Butter. When I think vegan, I think sawdusty cookies and sanctimony. (Sorry, vegan readers. I base my totally unfair generalization on very limited personal experience. I’m sure you have a wicked sense of humor and a fabulous flair for cooking.) Regardless, this most excellent post made a mighty convincing case for homemade vegetable stock. So convincing that I made some. I used it in a squash soup, which was delectable. I froze the rest for a rainy day. It rained mushrooms. How could I resist?

This soup has a sublime interplay of flavors and scents. There’s the smell of freshly turned soil, and fall leaves, and hay. That’s all in there. And then there’s the way the cream folds itself elegantly around the rest. It’s smooth silk beside the nubby linen of mushrooms. The leeks and garlic? Delicate stitching. And the wine? Help! How do I escape from this tortured sewing analogy? I’ll just move on. The wine tastes exactly like it was born to simmer with mushrooms and leeks.  Which it was. ‘Nuf said.

WILD MUSHROOM SOUP
makes four servings

4 tablespoons butter
2 medium leeks, white and light green parts only, sliced into quarter-inch rounds and rinsed well
2 pounds mushrooms, any kind you like, chopped coarsely
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme, or ½ teaspoon dried thyme
½ cup white wine
2 ½ cups vegetable stock
1 cup water
½ cup cream
2 tablespoons sherry
salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add leeks, and sauté for about five minutes.

Add mushrooms, sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, and sauté until the liquid cooks off and the mushrooms start to brown, about 12 minutes. Hold off salting the vegetables. The stock may be salty enough.

Add thyme and garlic, and sauté for another minute or two. Add wine and simmer for five minutes.

Add vegetable stock and water. (You can use store-bought stock if you’re not inspired to make your own. I’ll never tell.) Reduce heat to low, and simmer for 20 minutes.

Puree soup in a blender or food processor until it is very smooth. Return soup to pot over low heat.

Add cream and sherry and stir to blend. Warm soup over low heat until it is warmed through. Do not boil the cream.

Season to taste with salt and pepper. Garnish with a sprinkling of fresh thyme.

Cool nights are encroaching, friends. Long-forgotten sweaters are coming out of the closet. It’s time to oil up a sheet pan and start roasting vegetables. What’s that you say? You’re drowning in tomatoes? You can’t eat them fast enough? You’re losing sleep over finding a worthy home for them all? Well, rest easy. You just found a noble purpose for a whole mess of them: Roasted Tomato and Red Pepper Soup. Things are looking up.

When it comes to soup, tomatoes like to brashly elbow other flavors out of the spotlight. I’m duly impressed by all their ruby-red brightness.  But it doesn’t hurt to enhance them with a few back-up singers: a subtle hint of spice, and the earthy caramelized goodness that comes with roasted peppers and shallots. The tomato still gets a starring role, it’s just forced to harmonize. The complex flavors in this soup jostle and nudge each other for position, but no one outshines the others. They’re stuck with complimenting each other to perfection.

The shallots, garlic and red pepper are roasted with nothing more than olive oil and sea salt. Some things in life can’t be improved upon.  The tomatoes are roasted with a sprinkling of coriander, because together they smell like flowers in summer.  But the crowning glory of this soup, the element that brings all the others together, is a smidge of hot smoked paprika. Suddenly the soup goes from being better-than-average to being alluring, deep, and smoky.

Tomato soup is comforting. Especially with a crisp and gooey grilled cheese sandwich. But this one is more than soothing. It’s downright intriguing. Can’t you hear that mountain of tomatoes calling your name? I’m thinking they need some intrigue in their lives. Who doesn’t?

This is really more of an outline than a recipe. You could include more or less of any ingredient. Substitute or add stuff. There are no rules here. Just roast the vegetables. Throw in some spices that move you. Blend and add water. Then pat yourself on the back for making something so downright delicious with so little effort. And don’t forget the dollop of sour cream. It’s a player.

ROASTED TOMATO AND RED PEPPER SOUP
makes four large or six small servings

3 pounds smallish tomatoes, halved (Romas would work well.)
½ teaspoon ground coriander
4 small cloves of garlic, peel left on
3 medium shallots, trimmed, peeled, bulbs halved
1 small red pepper, quartered, stemmed, and seeded (see note)
2 tablespoons olive oil
kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 cup sour cream

Preheat oven to 375 degrees, with the two racks placed as close to the middle as possible.

Line two rimmed sheet pans with foil, and spray foil with cooking spray. (This step is not necessary. It just makes for easier clean-up.) You’ll need a big sheet for the tomatoes. A smaller pan will work for the rest of the vegetables.

On a large rimmed sheet pan, place the tomato halves, cut side up, in one layer. Sprinkle with salt and coriander.

In a medium bowl, toss garlic cloves, shallots, and red pepper with olive oil and a half teaspoon kosher salt. Spread them in one layer on the other pan. Place the pepper pieces skin-side down.

Roast vegetables until they are browning nicely. The time will depend on their size.

• My garlic cloves were done in about 20 minutes. Give the rest of the vegetables a stir when you pull out that pan to get the garlic. Remove the garlic cloves from their skins. (The skins come right off.)
• My peppers and shallots were done in about 30 minutes. The pepper skins will get very dark, even black in spots. That’s okay.
• My tomatoes took about an hour, but it will depend on the size and moisture content of your tomatoes. Take them out when they are starting to brown on the edges.

Place all the vegetables into a food processor or blender. Puree until smooth. Place the puree in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add enough water to acheive desired thickness. (I used two cups.) Warm through.

Add smoked paprika, and salt and pepper to taste. Don’t be shy with the salt.

Top with a  dollop of sour cream.

NOTE: The pepper I used was an impulse buy at the farmer’s market. It’s called a Beaver Dam pepper, and it’s delicious. It’s smaller than your average bell pepper. The one pictured here is about five inches long, and skinny (as you can see).  I used just one for the soup. Beaver Dam peppers are sweet, but they pack a little heat. If you don’t have heirloom pepper varieties at your fingertips, don’t fret. You can get a similar effect by roasting a small sweet red pepper with an anaheim pepper (or a jalapeno if you’re the spicy type). Remove the stems, veins, and seeds from whatever peppers you choose.