This has been a weekend of in-the-moment food adventures. Yesterday, a friend called to say that the new Rita’s (<–turn your sound down if you click on that link) was giving away free ices that day and that day only–and right now was my chance to meet up and claim my frozen delight. I ran out and did just that, going with a cappuccino cream ice that really hit the spot.

Later that day, I made a simple fruit salad with a complex-looking design for a dinner party. To better explain what I mean by that, see the illumination below:

The recipe for this is quite simple, although it helps to be artistically inclined. Continue reading →

It’s nowhere near knitting season, but I’m thinking of thick, red chenille yarn. There’s something here that reminds me of a hat I made a couple of winters ago… velvety, soft, voluptuous. Yes — they’re raspberries! And oh my they’re good.

If you’re lucky enough to have small fingers and/or if you’re a kid, you can pretend that they (the fingers) are little people and put fuzzy red hats on their heads! And then scare the bejeezus out of ’em by biting them off. Ah, little finger people. How skittish you are!

Anyway, if you’re lucky enough to get a package of perfectly ripe, organic lovelies like I did, you will be very happy with the taste of the headwear.

I recently made soup, and got to thinking….

What is it about soup?

I mean, how does soup satisfy the entire range of human need, from basic sustenance to emotional comfort to medical wonder to artistic creation? How has it become so embedded in every aspect of our culture? You may be skeptical, but think about it. In literature, there’s the children’s book in the George and Martha series–you know, the one where Martha makes endless amounts of pea soup because she thinks George likes it, when really he’s just pouring it into his shoes? There’s also Oliver Twist, who holds up his soup/porridge bowl and utters the most famous and pitiful orphan line in human history: “Please, sir, can I have some more?” Indeed, in stories of orphanages, concentration camps, and refugees, there’s usually soup involved — a thin one, invariably involving cabbage.

One of my most vivid memories of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC was not the art itself, but the story my mother told about struggling actors and artists, in a down-and-out state, making tomato soup with ketchup and water that were available free in the museum cafeteria. (At first, I recalled this story as one of my ancestors when they first came to America. It seemed a little dubious that ketchup packets existed in the Ellis Island days, but I chose not to burst that romantic bubble. I recently got the correct story– it was starving artists, not relatives–but the fact remains that soup was a mainstay for the poverty-stricken). On the other hand, no prix fixe menu at a fancy pants restaurant would be caught dead without a bisque-y or consume-y affair.

Then there’s the whole Chicken Soup for the [insert marketable group here] Soul series (in college, I recall serious conversations about what the version for the vegetarian soul would be called). The reason the title worked so well, even if it did exclude us veggies, was the old soothing reputation of chicken soup. Jewish grandmothers (and grandfathers) really do make that stuff, and for generations, Jews and gentiles have been eating it when they caught a bit of a cold. The book series is where soup meets medical miracle meets pop culture. How do you do?

So where do all these thoughts get me? Hm. I don’t actually make or buy soup that often. But I do know that soup is inspiring and necessary at once. And that I must occasionally invoke it by simmering a few ingredients in lots of seasoned water. Let us not try to understand it. Soup just is.

At this site.