Hands down, soup is my favorite thing to cook. Despite the mess, the whole process is satisfying in several ways. Making soup is the hidden agenda when I roast a chicken---I start the broth before finishing the dinner dishes, simmering something important in that stock pot. And…I feel connected to my mother, picturing her in the kitchen, apron attached, creating marvels with unwritten recipes. She bought no bouillon cubes or cartons of stock to get soup going; everything from scratch, no shortcuts, other than the water, in that the hydrogen and oxygen were already combined!

I produce soup year ‘round. In the summer, Tomato Basil, from anybody’s garden crop, is the favorite. Potato is also high on the list since it cooks fast. The opposite is also true. While others run to the store for milk and toilet tissue at the first sign of a snowstorm, I gather ingredients for a hardy Beef Barley. Usually, I go as far as my freezer for a large bag marked ‘Soup Starter.’  I copied that term, but mine is not the boxed dehydrated kind sold in stores, it’s an accumulation of real ingredients. Using weary vegetables from the hydrator drawer, recycling the less than fancy parts of the chicken or rump roast, adding herbs and patience to create comfort food from practically nothing.

In recent years I found soup-making inspiration from not one, but two 92-year-olds: my Aunt Jo and a friend’s Aunt Jo miles away. My own Aunt Jo makes a mean Spinach Tortellini soup, and I was fascinated to learn that the other Aunt Jo makes a batch of soup each week to deliver to the sick in her church. If these women, decades older, can do all that, certainly I could do something more with my soup skills. About once a month I began sending a quart to someone I heard was under the weather, whether they needed it or not!  

Creators of homemade soup sometimes need the comfort of it themselves. Once, when I took to my bed with fever and chills, my husband stayed home from the office and handled our young children’s morning routine. I slept right through it. Then he opened our bedroom door and asked: “For breakfast, do you want toast or a Klondike?”

I mumbled, “Toast.”  I knew these were his specialties and appreciated the humor.

Hours later—after my morning nap, the door opened and staying a safe distance, he softly offered: “For lunch, do you want toast or a Klondike?” 

“Toast please,” I responded, thinking his question less funny this time, yet just as easy a choice. I sawed logs for another 4 hours.

At dusk, the door opened slightly and staying in the safety of the doorframe, as if expecting an earthquake, he dared… “For supper, do you want toast or a Klon” ….

“Listen to me,” I broke in, sounding stronger from that second piece of toast, “Go down to the basement freezer and find a container marked ‘Soup.’ Remove the lid and thaw it in the microwave. You can do this! Bring it up here with a spoon!” 

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.