Soup for the Soul

To quote the French chef Louis P. De Gouy, “Soup is cuisine's kindest course. It breathes reassurance; it steams consolation.” With the cold dark days of winter ahead, we present Soup for the Soul — a collection of stories exploring the magic of soup. Why soup? Because few dishes punch as far beyond its composition as soup, a distillate of a culture’s cuisine and an x-ray of its terroir. Take the Mexican pozole. Studded with hominy, this ingredient is the result of nixtamalization, a process used by the Ancient Aztecs and Mayas. Each sip is a callback to indigenous ancestry. Now look at gazpacho. Thickened with bread in a trick from the Ancient Romans, flavored with olive oil and almonds from the Moors, then later mixed with tomatoes from the Americas, the dish tells the very timeline of Spain.

Soup is also the original medicine. In Ancient Greece, the physician Galen prescribed chicken soup for migraines, upset stomach, fevers, even leprosy. Satisfying, with few and often modest ingredients, it’s also thus a dish of the people. A balm for that which ails us — all of us. Most powerfully, soup is a metaphor for alchemy. In the folktale Stone Soup, a hungry traveler comes upon a village, asking for a bit of food to no avail. So he announces he’ll make “stone soup.” The only thing missing is a pot. Intrigued, the villagers loan a pot. The traveler fills it with water, drops in a stone, and starts to mix. “Stones like these generally make good soup. But oh, if there were carrots, it would be much better,” he says. Off a curious villager goes to grab some spare carrots. “Boil stones in butter, and you may sip the broth,” he continues. Some butter is fetched. On it goes. Soon enough, the pot is bubbling with enough to feed the entire community — the villagers delighting in the shared feast. 

The takeaway? The promise of something greater than the sum of its parts can unify the disparate, the disjointed, and the isolated.