By Patricia Winton
Please join me on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues where I write about all things Italian. Next week I write about pasta and tuna.
When I was about eight years old, I stayed
home from school, in bed with the flu. Nothing tasted good. And while I don’t
remember my mother trying to tempt me with goodies to make me eat—she isn’t
that kind of mother—she did make me potato soup. Somehow, that appealed. In
fact, I liked it so much that I wanted it again and again.
Such a simple dish, potato soup. Finely
chopped onions sautéed in butter until soft. Potatoes cut into tiny cubes.
Simmer these two in water for a while. Salt and pepper to taste. What could be
easier?
Yet for me, it evokes warmth and stability
and, yes, comfort. Over the years, I’ve tried many variations. Leeks instead of
onions with watercress produces traditional French vichyssoise when chilled.
Sometimes I’ve added bacon and corn for a lovely chowder. Clams makes it even
better. I’ve pureed the basic potato soup to make a smooth concoction and
topped it with a dollop of sour cream and chives. I’ve combined the basic
recipe with roasted red peppers and cream to produce a first course for a fancy
dinner party. I’ve even added braised fennel and bluefish for a hearty main course. But when I’m sick, or want to feel pampered, it’s back to that simple
onion, potato, and water recipe.
Once when I worked on a political campaign
and stayed with comparative strangers in a city I didn’t know working with
people I’d never met before, I came down with a cold. I went “home” at noon,
stopping at a grocery store on the way. In the strange kitchen, I cooked my
soup and ate some of it, putting the remainder in a plastic container in the
fridge. Then I went to bed.
Several hours later, I woke up feeling a bit
better and hankering for the leftover soup. In the kitchen I found the
householder and her sister preparing their evening meal. They’d been to the
grocery store, too, and everything in the fridge had shifted. I searched and
searched to no avail. Finally, I asked if anybody had seen the blue plastic
bowl. “Oh,” said the householder. “I had to make room for all this food. I
opened that bowl and it smelled awful, so I threw it out.”
I still recall the sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomach almost forty years later. One woman’s comfort is another’s
wormwood.
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ReplyDeleteI'm glad you liked it anonymous. Please drop by again.
DeleteI could use some potato soup right now, and I don't even need any comforting. :) Thanks for sharing Patrica, I'm hungry all over again.
ReplyDeleteIt's simple to make!
DeletePerhaps your hostess was put off more by its appearance, and not knowing what it was, than by its smell. She must have thought it was something she had made herself and forgotten.
ReplyDeleteAnna, you always look for the best, and the best intentions, in everyone. A nice perspective.
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