Yesterday I finally had free time, an empty house, a few baskets of pretty gnarly but ripe and delicious tomatoes, and the will to do something. It was time to make the wonderful tomato soup that I have made every year since Alissa was born, practically.
I went out onto the porch and found the pot that hasn't been used in a year -- the one with the colander insert so you can lift out a lot of parboiled tomatoes without any effort. I associate this pot with Mrs. Beall. I think she gave it to me a million years ago. Then I realized I didn't have any celery. Dang. But wait, they just picked enough cutting celery to add some to each herb crate for market for the first time this season! I got on my golf cart and zoomed to the stand, collected up some lovely long red seconds onions and two bunches of incredibly flavorful celery.
And just like that, I was ready to go. Usually it takes some amount of preparation, mental and practical, to be ready to do a big cooking project. But our kitchen is so ready for anything now (mostly thanks to Jon who can't help buying everything he wants when it comes to the kitchen) that you can start the water boiling without thinking through all that you will need by the end.
Started the water boiling and chopped the onions and celery. Heated up a big cast iron pot. Filled the sink halfway with cold water and added some ice. Dragged a stool over to the stove so I wouldn't have to bend over for any reason and I wouldn't drip gross juice all over the floor. Put the basket of lumpy, holey, a little bit rotten tomatoes on the stool and got started. Each batch of tomatoes takes one minute, so you have time in between to do things like peel the last ones, put the vegetables in the pot, stir. I cycled between the stove and the sink and the counter and realized that since I was really the only one here, I had control over the airwaves. That never happens. It is so rare that I don't even really know what I like to listen to, so I just listen to the same things as always -- old music like Graceland and the Pentatonics singing Hallelujah and Arlo Guthrie with his goofy, whiny voice.
It was a delicious 90 minutes. I got all the tomatoes into the pot, seasoned them, and then had to go to a meeting. When Jon came home, he turned the soup back on so it could turn into soup. The only verb that I have ever come up with for that action, the melding/blending -- is "to soup." There is no soup that can be truly ready without having time to soup.
This morning after I got back from loading the trucks, I added a new twist to my soup recipe. Usually I use the immersion blender but lately I haven't been liking that texture so much. Since the soup was cool, it was painless to blend it in batches, and I got to use the measuring cup that I love because it reminds me of Fairchild Co-op. It is a cute, tiny little one quart version of the gallon measuring cups that we used to use. I stole it from Lani when I helped her move out of her house about 20 years ago (I told her and she didn't care).
Yesterday I read some parts of an article, or maybe just the introductory blurb, about why stuff matters. Our stuff gives us meaning and identity. Having no stuff would be disorienting because your past is represented by the stuff you keep. Without a past and a memory, who are you anyway. That's what I got out of the few sentences. And that is how I was feeling as I was putting this soup together. Every pot, every piece of equipment, even the kinds of burners we have on the stove (Jon has a gas burner, an induction burner, plus this modern but substandard glass top electric burner thing) -- it all adds up to what we care about, what we do, how we cook, who we are.
I hope you all get to taste this soup this winter. That's why I make it. For all the people who love tomato soup. This is a good batch.
