There are few things more comforting and warming on a cold and bleak winters day than a hearty soup. As the days of late have been both cold and bleak I have been taking much solace in the kitchen. The soup changes each time, but the ambiance, the meditative calm as the worries and stresses of the day are pushed aside, that remains the same.
The gas flames burn blue on the cooker, licking at the round-bellied saucepan that waits invitingly. Into the air the scent of olive oil and molten butter whirls, vaporised in the warming heat. In one hand I hold an onion, freshly peeled and doused in cold water in the other a kitchen knife. Roughly chopped pieces of onion are tossed into the sizzling oil, which spits as droplets of water tumble in and explode in crackling bursts. The scent of frying onion mingles with the warmth of butter, full and heady in the air. This moment, this scent is my favorite part of the cooking, but this, as with all things, must pass. Another onion soon joins it, then a third. By now the first slices of onion are beginning to char, and I shake the pan to tip them over in the spitting oil.
A potato is quickly peeled, chopped and dropped into the pan and stirred. Next, a half dozen fresh and succulent carrots, scraped so their fresh, orange hue almost seems to glow. Cut into small chunk, they too tumble into the rapidly filling pot and are swirled about and mingled together. A stick of celery joins the mix, then a handful of coriander, freshly picked, washed then the verdant leaves and stalks ripped and torn. All tumble into the pot, all stirred so there aromas fill the air.
The heat turned down now, I reach for the pestle and mortar. The pepper corns pop and crunch under the meditative weight of grinding them into fine powder. I tip in the pepper, watching it tumble through the air into the pan, before following it with sea salt, fennel and mustard seed. Boiling water fills the pot, and the chopped vegetables dance in the eddies of heat and the soup simmers away. Time passes. Ten minutes turns to twenty. Time stretches onwards, broken only by the occasional stirring of the bubbling pot.
Finally, the knife blade slips through the cooked vegetables. The gas flames extinguished, the soup all but ready. A fresh handful of coriander and a splash of cream both stirred in and the soup served up. Piping hot with fresh baked and crusty bread, winter pressed back and peace restored.
