10:59
As a child, soup was not a part of winter. Instead soup was connected to Ramadaan, the Muslim fasting month. The pot of soup would be on by the time we got home from school, boiling away. It was always the biggest pot we owned. On the rare days that it was cool enough for the door to be closed, the windows would be steamed up in the kitchen, with the trails left by runaway drops. The aroma of this delicious brew would permeate the whole house, taunting our empty bellies.
There was just soup. No different kinds of soup, no variation on the standard. Soup was just soup. It started with big meaty bones, filled with marrow. At the green grocer my mother would buy a bag of soup-greens. Soup-greens were made up of a few leafy stalks of celery, a couple of carrots, a parsnip, which my mother usually tossed, a leek and a turnip. There may have been something else, but I don't remember.
When the bones had been boiling for a bit, chopped celery and leek and grated carrot and turnip would be added to the broth. An alarming amount of peppercorns would follow. Shortly before my father came home from work, my mother would make a paste of flour and water and stir that into the soup to thicken it. My father coming home was always the highlight of every day.
When we broke our fast at sunset, we'd dig into the delicious soup which had tormented all our senses all afternoon. We'd break our buttered bread into the soup and add some Worcestershire sauce. Delicious!
Memories that still warm my heart today.
11:05 - Oops, a minute over, but I got carried away with my soup story.
As a child, soup was not a part of winter. Instead soup was connected to Ramadaan, the Muslim fasting month. The pot of soup would be on by the time we got home from school, boiling away. It was always the biggest pot we owned. On the rare days that it was cool enough for the door to be closed, the windows would be steamed up in the kitchen, with the trails left by runaway drops. The aroma of this delicious brew would permeate the whole house, taunting our empty bellies.
There was just soup. No different kinds of soup, no variation on the standard. Soup was just soup. It started with big meaty bones, filled with marrow. At the green grocer my mother would buy a bag of soup-greens. Soup-greens were made up of a few leafy stalks of celery, a couple of carrots, a parsnip, which my mother usually tossed, a leek and a turnip. There may have been something else, but I don't remember.
When the bones had been boiling for a bit, chopped celery and leek and grated carrot and turnip would be added to the broth. An alarming amount of peppercorns would follow. Shortly before my father came home from work, my mother would make a paste of flour and water and stir that into the soup to thicken it. My father coming home was always the highlight of every day.
When we broke our fast at sunset, we'd dig into the delicious soup which had tormented all our senses all afternoon. We'd break our buttered bread into the soup and add some Worcestershire sauce. Delicious!
Memories that still warm my heart today.
11:05 - Oops, a minute over, but I got carried away with my soup story.
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