Good Hot Soup

 

The sun is darting off the frozen leaves of my hedge this morning, yet another icy cold moment of winter. There is something right about this cold, because it gives an invigorating crispness to the day. And to those of us in northern France, where winter can be grey and cloudy, bright and cold is a gift.

I say this with a nod to farmers and market vendors who must work in these temperatures without complaint. All the more reason to support them, and I do, at least twice a week. I brave the cold to buy from those who brave more cold to grow and sell. For me it’s a quick trip with parentheses of steaming hot chocolate on either end. For them, it’s simply cold. Their hardiness is inspirational, their good cheer without fail.

The market takes on a whole new look during icy times. Farmers cover their more delicate wares with blankets. Surprisingly, greens like mâche (lamb’s lettuce) and escarole are left unprotected, as they thaw in perfect condition once in from the cold. Root vegetables, squash and cabbages are fine too. Spinach and herbs must be covered, but any greenhouse-grown vegetables, and even leeks, benefit from some protection. Farmers themselves look like Bibendum, the Michelin tire man, with their layers of sweaters, jackets, vests and other cold-weather paraphernalia. Some set up gas-powered heaters where they can warm their hands; others simply brave it out.

Butchers and charcutiers at the market warm up beside their huge pans of simmering choucroute and paella that send off billows of steam. The fishmongers get no relief as they shuck and fillet, save the sympathy of the customer who says “Don’t bother, I’ll do this at home where it’s warm.”

To ward off the extremes, which began here in December, I have been serving meals in front of the fire in our cozy, timbered dining room. This is a change, as I usually warm up my large, high-ceilinged kitchen, which is basically unheated save for a cooking fireplace and a coal-powered Aga stove. I can make the room comfortable, mostly, if I put a table right in front of the blazing fireplace and stoke the stove high. But this year we all—family and friends alike—agree that the enveloping warmth of the dining room is far more inviting than the approximate warmth of the kitchen.

In winter I cook on the Aga, since it’s always warm and always ready. Designed by Swedish engineer and inventor Nils Gustaf Dalén, winner of the 1912 Nobel Prize for Physics, the Aga is geared to instinct. After being blinded in an accidental explosion, Dalén could only feel variations in temperature, and this informed the stove’s design, so that both ovens and burners are either hot or less hot, making cooking absolutely simple. I brown, sauté and bring to a boil on the hot burner, then shift things to the less hot burner to finish cooking. As for the ovens, the hot one turns out a gorgeous crisp-skinned roast chicken, tender cakes, crusty breads. The warming oven is perfect for overnight oatmeal, keeping food hot and warming up plates. An added advantage is the small pool of warmth the stove creates in a very cold kitchen. Many an evening, when dishes are done, whoever remains has leaned on it, absorbing its warmth as the conversation continues.

This winter I’ve devoted much stove time to soups, because they are so satisfying and so, so simple. A gorgeously delicious soup can be made and served easily within an hour. Conversely, once made, soup can hold, and there is no better place to hold it than at the back of a perpetually warm stove. Aside from flavor, the goodwill generated by a flavorful hot soup is not to be underestimated. I’m not sure why, but when I set a bowl of soup in front of my children, my friends, my guests, it is as if I’ve committed a merciful act of generosity. I don’t need to know why, I just need to keep repeating it!

A favorite soup for us is leek and potato, a French standard. Like most of my soups, this one couldn’t be simpler. I wash the leeks well, cut them into small dice and put them in a heavy soup pot, along with a starchy potato diced equally small. I add water and sea salt, and boil it all gently until the vegetables are tender. Then, I puree it and voila! Leek and potato soup. There are more complex recipes that call for sautéing the vegetables in butter first, adding an herb or two to the broth and topping it off with cream right before serving, even sprinkling it with some grated Gruyère. Do all of this if you like. I don’t because it’s all gilding the purity of the heaven-sent combination of leek and potato.

My squash soup is more complex, and we all spoon it up with gusto. I like butternut too, but I prefer potimarron, or kuri squash. After peeling the squash I cut it in small pieces, which brings me to a point of instruction. When you make soup, cut the vegetables very, very small. The more surface area that is exposed while cooking, the more flavor emerges to meld into a round, satisfying result. I add chicken or duck stock to the squash along with star anise, and simmer until the squash is tender. Then I remove the star anise, which has given just the perfect hint of flavor, purée the squash and our main course is ready to eat. Sometimes for a more formal meal I serve this soup in espresso cups, as an appetizer, as we mingle in front of the fire. It’s delicious and elegant.

A simple potage is perfect in winter; in fact it’s probably the most common dish on the winter table in the French countryside. It must include a leek, a potato and a carrot. Once those three are present, the world is the cook’s oyster. I add an apple and a turnip, a handful of thyme from the garden and a bay leaf or two. If I’ve got a parsnip, that goes in, as does a touch of celery root—not too much, as celery root can overwhelm the rest. This all cooks in water, gets a quick turn of the wand blender and that’s about it. I usually drizzle some extra-virgin olive oil over it, and sprinkle it with a touch of fleur de sel. Its herbal sweet flavor is so satisfying that often this is dinner, along with a fresh, crusty baguette. Just thinking about it makes me hungry.

Turnips tend to be a neglected member of the root vegetable family, though they offer unprecedented flavor and sweetness. When I make turnip soup, I use a base of beef or veal stock and give it the full creamy treatment, thickening it at the last minute with a generous amount of crème fraîche, heated just to the steaming point but never boiled. When I serve this velvety elixir, no one believes it is made with turnips.

Another favorite is beet soup, a simple matter of softening roasted beets in a water-based herb stock, pureeing them, then garnishing the soup with peppery clouds of cream and sprigs of mâche. I’ve made and served this hundreds of times, and I never tire of eating it or seeing the reactions on even the most skeptical beet-eaters’s face when they taste it. It is, quite simply, sublime.

Most of my soups are water-based, in the Italian style, for I think these are fresher, brighter, more pure of flavor than those with a stock base. Every now and then, though, a bit more richness is called for and that is when I use stock. If you want to substitute stock for water, by all means you should. But before you do, try a water-based soup and see what you think. I suspect you’ll decide from there on out that for daily soups, and sometimes even soups intended for finer occasions, water is about the best stock there can be.

With that in mind, I will leave you with one of my water-based soup recipes on this fine, crisp Norman day. Try it and see what you think, and please be sure to let me know.

 

 

CREAM OF BEET SOUP WITH CREAM CLOUDS/EMULSION DE BETTERAVES, AUX NUAGES DE CREME

 

 

1 lb 8 oz raw beets, scrubbed clean
Sea salt and freshly ground white pepper

For the broth:

1 medium onion, peeled and coarsely chopped
4 shallots, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 leek, white and part of green only, trimmed and cut into thin rounds
1 small carrot, peeled and cut into very thin rounds
1 small bunch fresh thyme
1 fresh bay leaf from the laurel nobilis, or 1 dried imported bay leaf
One 2-inch chunk of ginger, cut in thin slices
2 quarts filtered water
1/2 tsp coarse sea salt

For the garnish:

1/2 cup crème fraîche or heavy, non ultra-pasteurized cream
3/4 tsp freshly ground white pepper
1 small shallot, finely minced
18 small springs of mâche (lamb’s lettuce) or other seasonal green or herb

1. Preheat oven to 425º F.

2. Place beets in baking dish and season with salt and white pepper. Pour about ½ inch water in dish, cover, and bake until beets are soft through, 1 to 1-1/2 hours, depending on size. Test by inserting a sharp knife blade into center; you should feel no resistance. Remove from oven. When cool enough to handle, trim and peel them.

3. Make broth: Place all ingredients in large saucepan and cover with the water. Add coarse sea salt, cover, and bring to a boil. Lower heat to medium and cook, covered, until vegetables are soft and have lost their flavor, about 1 hour. Remove from heat and strain, discarding solids. Reserve.

4. Make garnish: Whisk 1/ 4 cup of crème fraîche until it is very firm and will hold a stiff peak. Whisk in white pepper and reserve.

5. Cut 3 oz of the cooked beets into tiny dice and reserve. Coarsely chop remaining beets. Bring 3 cups of the broth to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium high heat. Add coarsely chopped beets, stir, season with salt and pepper, cover and cook for 20 minutes, until beets are very soft. Transfer beets and cooking liquid to bowl of food processor or use a hand blender to purée, then return to saucepan. Add remaining crème fraîche and heat just until hot. Taste for seasoning.

6. Evenly divide soup among 6 warmed bowls. Working quickly, make quenelles (small oval shapes) of the peppered crème fraîche using teaspoons, and place one in the center of each bowl of soup. Alternatively, garnish each bowl with a small dollop of seasoned crème fraîche. Sprinkle with diced beet and minced shallot, garnish with mâche, and serve.

Serves 6

 

Susan Herrmann Loomis teaches cooking classes in Normandy and Paris. The latest of her nine books is Cooking at Home on Rue Tatin (William Morrow, 2006). Susan’s website

Originally published in the February 2010 issue of France Today