Soup & Writing your Soul

By Amy

Within moments they were eating soup, baguette and watching Les Canadiens slaughter New York.“Too salty,” snapped Gilbert. “I told Carole not to put so much salt in the food.”
“Tastes fine to me.”
“Then you have no taste. Raised on poutine and burgers.”
Beauvoir looked at Dr. Gilbert expecting to see a smile. Instead his handsome face was sour, angry. Entitled, petulant, petty.The asshole was back. Or, more likely, had been there all along in deceptively easy company with the saint.

Dr. Gilbert is such an interesting character. He is an example of how intelligence, sensitivity, knowledge, understanding, and kindness aren’t always enough.

Is it just me? Or does everyone snack while they cook? One of my favorites - a spread of Greek yogurt + mustard, tomato & a sprinkle of basil, then toasted in the oven for about 10 minutes. Mmmmmm...

And Beauvoir knew then the man was a saint. He’d been touched by any number of medical men and women. All healers, all well intentioned, some kind, some rough. All made it clear that they wanted him to live, but none had made him feel that his life was precious, was worth saving, was worth something.Vincent Gilbert did. His healing went beyond the flesh, beyond the blood. Beyond the bones.

He is a brilliant, genius, sensitive, and caring physician. He’s a saint.

He’s also arrogant, curt, irritated, difficult to please, rude, and probably impossible to live with. He’s an asshole.

I think he’s a fascinating character because he reminds me of all those people who, with the best of intentions, trod over everyone around them. He reminds me of all the people who are idealists, but oftentimes too egotistical to live up to those ideals in everyday life. He is a caricature, an exaggeration, of what most of us are. What I am. Wishing to be kind, empathetic, patient, and understanding. But frequently messing up because our own feelings and impulses and needs get in the way.

He’s FINE. Ruth’s FINE, that is (Fucked up, Insegure, Neurotic, and Egotistical).

(I still think I should make some kind of artsy sign with “I’m FINE” printed on it.)

Vincent Gilbert grew. He changed. We only hear of the “before”  version and see the “new and improved” one. Even the new and improved version is, frequently, more of an asshole than a saint. The difference, I think, is that he knows it.

In the books, we are told that Gilbert wrote about his process, his journey, and his insight. It was, according to Gamache, an inspired and inspiring book: BEING. Louise Penny mentions (somewhere, I can’t find it) that the inspiration came partly from Jean Vanier’s book BECOMING HUMAN which is, in fact, an inspiring book.

This post is our 80^th post. The 80^th attempt to blog (literally) through literature and food and try to contemplate questions of the soul. The 80^th time we share our process, our journey, and our insight. And there’s really nothing new about any of what we have written…

I have become increasingly aware that one of the magical aspects of reading is its humbling power. No matter how brilliant I think an idea is, someone else has already thought of it before I did, written it or phrased it more eloquently, or lived it more intensely.

Reading has long been an addiction. Interpreting, learning, and understanding my own life and my thoughts using the books I have read or am reading has also been something I’ve done ever since I can remember. Writing about what I read and trying to elaborate, cohesive posts about my scattered thoughts is what has been new.

I began thinking it would be a way to explore the food. I quickly realized it would be a way to explore myself. I thank those who encouraged us. I thank Libby for joining me. I thank all of you who read and follow… And I’d like to confess that I think we might be reaching a phase where there is less to say without being overly repetitive. I’m not yet saying goodbye, but I am announcing that I’m not quite sure how long we will keep the blog going. I has been, to me, a sort of public form of journaling and has kept me accountable (if only to myself) to organize my thoughts at least once a week.

I hope that I have been more successful than Dr. Vincent at applying what I have been learning. I know there is still much to contemplate and to learn… and so much room for growth.

I made a soup which I’m sure Vincent Gilbert would not have appreciated it. He seems to always be irritated at something anyway, right? This one was a tortellini soup with Italian sausage meatballs. It could be made as a vegetarian soup by simply removing the meatballs, as the author of the original recipe suggested. I made minor changes to adjust to ingredients I had at hand, but basically stuck to her recipe, so I’ll just add the link (Tortellini Soup).

I thought it was so good I actually made it a second time within the week.

I wish you all a wonderful weekend and a wonderful year in 2017. May we all build on our past experiences, learn from our mistakes, emphasize our strengths and qualities, grasp opportunities, forgive our errors, find meaning in our sorrows, embrace our differences, cherish our loved ones, and listen.

My main goal for 2017 is to try to be the best version of myself that I can, to forgive myself for all the things I am not and learn to unconditionally love all that I am. My goal is to listen and try to place myself in others' shoes and to resist the urge to only see and tell things from my perspective and understanding. My goal is to allow myself words, but also to be wary of them and aware of their power and my power when I wield them so I take care to use them wisely. My goal is to change the world by focusing on changing myself. To love, starting with those who are closest (and frequently hardest to love). To listen. And to be kind.

Also, to eat lots of soup this winter. I do love soup.

Potato Soup & Civil War

by Amy

“Beauvoir took a hunk of warm baguette and smoothed whipped butter onto it, and watched it melt. Then he cut a slab of blue and Brie from the cheese board making the rounds. As Brother Raymond continued his liturgy of the faults in the monastery, Beauvoir took a spoonful of soup, with carrots, peas, parsnips and potatoes bumping together in the fragrant broth.”

The food in THE BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY is mouth-watering. Just reading that paragraph makes me wish I could spend a week in the monastery and partake of their meals, learn from their silence and slow down. Or pick blueberries. And eat them. With chocolate. Sigh. Any of you feel the same?

 “Are you one of the abbot’s men, or the prior’s men?”

The doctor’s gaze, friendly before, now sharpened, examining Beauvoir. Then he smiled again.

“I’m neutral, Inspector. Like the Red Cross. I just tend to the wounded.”

“Are there many? Wounded, I mean?”

The smile left Frère Charles’s face. “Enough. A rift like that in a previously happy monastery hurts everyone.”

“Including yourself?”

“Oui,” the doctor admitted. “But I really don’t take sides. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Was it appropriate for anyone?”

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted. A civil war is never civil.”

Then the monk’s gaze left Beauvoir and looked first at Francoeur, beside the abbot, then across the table to Gamache.

“As perhaps you know.”

A denial was on Beauvoir’s lips, but he stopped it. The monk knew. They all knew.”

I must confess that I oscillate between writing an entire flood of words and feeling like there is nothing to be added to this scene.

A civil war is never civil.

I’ve spent a few minutes staring at the screen watching the blinking courser. I keep wondering how much to share and how this is a potentially dangerous topic to explore.

I am reminded of Lincoln’s famous “a house divided cannot stand” quote. It is true of nations. It is true of homes.

This soup was, unwittingly, the cause of friction in my own home. My son has issues with food texture and soup is his least favorite of all foods. We have a deal that he has to at least taste things. 

This particular meal was one where the enforcing of the rule led to an unpleasant meal since we weren’t all in agreement as to the particulars of the “tasting rule”. The whole process led to the need for diplomacy in order to find a truce and strategies for future soup meals. He has since had to eat (taste, really… he never has to eat more than a spoonful or two) many, many soups and the most tolerable one, to him, is the apple parsnip one I’ve already posted about.

Civil war is never civil.

There doesn’t always have to be war in times of contention, though. A willingness to listen, to negotiate, and to try to understand another person (or nation or group or…) and their point of view may salvage a situation and avoid a war. We didn’t reach civil war in my own home. Thank goodness. Diplomacy and tolerance won out. I must confess, though, that navigating family negotiations and mediating interactions made that first soup meal savorless. I had the leftovers the next day with a lighter heart and a much better sensory experience.

Differences in opinion are positive. Arguments aren’t always easy to deal with, but I believe the end result can be positive when all parties at least attempt to be civil. It is the respect for civility and the recognition of the other’s humanity that avoids “war”.

Sometimes, however, war is unavoidable. Or, if it is avoidable, we are not in the position of power to avoid it. Gamache could only avoid “war” by conforming to corruption, for instance. And sometimes it is as the doctor explained to Beauvoir:

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted.”

A few weeks ago, when browsing through my shelves to find a book to show a friend, I started leafing through my copy of LETTERS OF NOTE (Shaun Usher). I was telling the friend about the book and was reminded of the letter Gandhi wrote to Hitler, a little before the Second World War broke out. For the sake of humanity. It is a powerful letter. Link: FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY

May we all choose our battles with careful consideration.

May diplomacy win, if possible.

May we be conscientious and fair in the battles we choose to engage in.

May we avoid unnecessary or hurtful fractions.

May we not forget the price of war – civil or otherwise – and seek other methods, when possible, in order to avoid the devastation.

And, whenever it is impossible to avoid a war, may be not forget that “the other side” (even when its leader is Francoeur) is human, too.

I think the sad thing about humanity is that we seem to frequently repeat our mistakes. So my last prayer is that we learn from our mistakes and from those of the ones that came before us. Not only in the big sweeping historical occurrences, but also in the small, seemingly insignificant experiences of daily life.

I did make soup. It was a vegetable soup. There were little pieces of vegetables bumping together… But I’m not a huge fan of thin broth, so I pureed about two thirds of the soup in order to make it a thicker broth.

I’m sure you’ll all forgive me if it doesn’t look quite like the soup I pictured when I read the scene. It was loosely based on this recipe: Perfect Potato Soup

Parsnip and Apple Soup - A Time of Stillness

by Amy

Dinner was served, starting with parsnip and apple soup, with a drizzle of walnut infused oil on top.
“Olivier gave me the recipe,” said Reine-Marie, turning down the light in the kitchen.
[…]
Gamache took a couple of spoonfuls of soup. It was smooth and earthy and just a touch sweet.
“Delicious,” he said to Reine-Marie, but his mind was elsewhere.

A meal that is a bit unusual (at least to me), served twice in one book, enticing enough that Reine-Marie asks Olivier for the recipe, AND gets complimented by a character? I had absolutely no trouble picking which THE NATURE OF THE BEAST recipe to start with!

Reine-Marie eats this soup at the Bistro earlier in the book during a memorable conversation with Gamache. She later serves it to Gamache, Agent Cohen, Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir during a cozy candlelit dinner.

I think Reine-Marie is a wise woman. In the Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane Post we talked a bit about her relationship with Gamache and how she was aware of who and what he was and was willing to respect that. In THE LONG WAY HOME Gamache was still healing. He was in a place of reflection and reassessment, and he was still reeling from all that had come before. Now he’s begun to ask What next? So has everybody else. Including the readers.

I think that’s the big question for the next book. What’s next?

Sitting in the warm and cheerful bistro, with fresh warm bread and parsnip and apple soup in front of them…
[…]
“I was threatened yesterday by a young agent. […] Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn’t care. If he’d treat a former cop like that, how’s he going to treat citizens?”
“You look shaken.”
“I am. I’d hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now…” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “Is he alone, or is there a whole class of thugs entering the Sûreté? Armed with clubs and guns.”

I think Gamache knows the department is in good hands. He’s just told Reine-Marie what a good job Chief Inspector Lacoste has been doing. He might sometimes miss it, but it’s no longer his job and he seems to be okay with that.

“Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She’s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”
Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration for his young protégé.

I think he’s wondering if maybe there’s another job that he is supposed to do. Another mission. Not the murders themselves, I don't think. Lacoste and Jean-Guy are perfectly capable of handling those and Lacoste is doing beautifully with the department. But maybe he’s to be involved in the shaping of a new “ideology” for the Sûreté? He’s outrooted corruption, but someone has to help ensure a new mentality is installed in its place. Maybe Gamache is feeling called to do that?

“I’m sorry, Armand.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.
He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.
“It’s a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I’m thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.”

He seems to be shying away from it, though. He’s been invited to take over as Superintendent. It’s a legitimate offer. He doesn’t answer anyone who questions him about it in this book. I don’t think he knows the answer himself. I think he’s still considering his options. Wondering. Trying to figure out what he wants to do. What he’s meant to do.

She knew he wasn’t considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.
If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?
“Would that interest you?” he asked.
“Going back to school?”
She hadn’t really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she’d love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.
And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the Sûreté ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.
But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.
“You like the professor?” she asked, going back to her soup.
“I do, though there seems a strange disconnect between the man and what he did for a living. His field was trajectory and ballistics. The main people who’d benefit from his research would be weapons designers. And yet he seems so, so, gentle. Scholarly. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Really?” she asked, trying not to smile. It was what she’d just been thinking about him. A scholarly man who pursued murderers. “I guess we’re not all what we seem.”

We aren’t all what we seem. We rarely are. And there's usually more to us (everyone) than meets the eye.

Some people seem to have been meant to do one thing. Or one type of thing. Or one line of work. Others are more flexible – or more versatile. Some people, by choice or circumstance, spend a lifetime doing the same things. Others seem to live many lives.

I think everyone thinks Armand Gamache still has much to give and much to contribute. No one – probably not even he – knows what that is, but everyone is asking What next?

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.
And now catching killers was in their blood.
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.
He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.
Hers.
“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”
“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.

No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.
What next?

And he’s right. Being still isn’t nothing. It may be the listening and meditating time necessary for further action.

I can empathize. I am going through a transition time in my own life. Big changes are coming my way. Maybe a move. Maybe a sabbatical. Very likely a career shift. Right now I’m in a whirlwind much like the one Gamache was in during HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN. Lots of plans and preparations being set in place in readiness for a moment when it will all have to come together – fast.

After the whirlwind, I’ll have to deal with the “What next?” period. While it is tempting to already try to make decision, I know answers given now would be impetuous and precipitous.

Although I am not yet in my fifties and can certainly empathize with my contemporary, Jean-Guy, I agree with Gamache. Stillness is not nothing. It is hard. It means self-assessment. It demands answers to hard questions.

I am looking forward to stillness, though. I’m looking forward to a time between times. A time for listening to the silence and the space between the words. A time of reflection and questioning.

A butterfly landed on my foot the other day. It slowly climbed up my pant leg. It looked so pretty there that I took a picture. This was a few days ago. Since then, butterflies have been on my mind. I realized that I'm probably in the caterpillar stage. "A big fat caterpillar", (The Very Hungry Caterpillar).

Maybe I can become a butterfly. To do so, I have to be willing to face the cocoon stage. Stillness. A time between times. While outwardly nothing seems to be happening, metamorphosis is hard work. A caterpillar actually digests itself before sleeping cells are awakened in order to grow into a butterfly. What a metaphor!

I look forward to my time of stillness. To my own "cocoon".

I am preparing myself to reassess and "digest" who I am in order to awaken the person I can become. I'd like to cultivate stillness. Sometimes it is a big obvious moment - like the one I am soon to face. Other times it's a little epiphany. A few minutes or hours of introspection. We all have cocoons in our lives.

I look forward to trying to answer the questions I ask myself. Who am I? What do I enjoy? Why am I the way I am? What do I like to do? Why do I like to do it? What are the things that make me feel like a day was productive? What are the things I miss? What are the things that I could live without? What makes me feel useful? What kind of social interaction nurtures my soul? What makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning? What are some things I keep in the back drawer of dreams and plans, and that I should put on the top of the list?

I look forward to my time of stillness.

It is coming. Soon. It is just around the corner.

I know I need it because I, like Gamache, am not ready to answer when people ask me What next?

I didn’t really know what parsnips were. That’s not quite true. I knew, but I didn’t know they were called parsnips. To me they were only cenoura baroa or mandioquinha, Brazilian names for the vegetable. I don’t even know if they taste exactly the same (most fruits and vegetables are slightly different in taste in different parts of the world), but I’m sure they’re close enough. I was a bit skeptical of adding apples to the soup… but it was lovely! I’m so glad I made it. Even my son (who absolutely HATES any and all kinds of soup) ate his obligatory two spoons to taste with little complaint and said it was “okay” (very high praise for soup coming from this particular 8-year-old).

I made a version of this recipe: Creamy Parsnip and Apple Soup

Of course there were slight modifications because… well, I cannot seem to make things precisely as the recipe says. I like my soups a bit thicker, so I added less broth. Also, I added a wee bit of parsley to it. I thought it was a good addition. Other than that, I basically followed the recipe. Madame Gamache has great taste.

In fact, I had a soup party this week! It was so much fun! I invited some friends who like to cook – but aren’t snobs about it. The idea was that each person would bring a pan of soup or chowder. We had bread and croutons and grated cheese and cheeses and fresh parsley and nuts and wine… And we had to chance to share our own soup – and the recipe – and to taste other soups. So much fun. We spent hours nibbling and eating and tasting and trying to figure out what spices and tricks each person had up their sleeve. 

We took turns serving our soups, so everyone spent some time in the kitchen reheating and adding final touches. Everything was served in the pan it came in, so it was informal, not at all fancy, and felt like an impromptu improvised family meal. 

Then we split the leftovers between us. Perfect. I had enough for dinner the next day. Although dinner was a whole new version, since I did some mix and matching with my leftovers! 

French Canadian Pea Soup (Québécois Soupe Aux Pois) and Ritual

by Libby

Clara and Myrna stood in line at the buffet table, balancing mugs of steaming French Canadian pea soup and plates with warm rolls from the boulangerie. (Still Life, Kindle, p.118)

The Three Pines community have gathered for a buffet lunch at the Bistro, following a meeting with Chief Inspector Armand Gamache about the circumstances of Jane Neal's death. A simple meal of soup, bread and cheese seems appropriate, providing nourishment and comfort to the crowd shocked by Jane's death.

Myrna's centrepiece for the table leaves little doubt how insightful she can be, when it comes to dealing with violent death and loss. 

Clara leaned into the arrangement of annual monarda, helenium and artist’s acrylic paint brushes. Nestled inside was a package wrapped in brown waxed paper. ‘It’s sage and sweetgrass,’ said Clara...‘Does this mean what I think?’ ‘A ritual,’ said Myrna. (Still Life, Kindle, p.120)

Myrna is the 'wise woman' (everyone needs a friend like Myrna), who recognises the power of ritual for its symbolic, spiritual and emotional meanings, when a life is lost and evil and fear has descended in their midst. She leads a group of Three Pines' women through a smudging ritual, to cleanse the place where Jane died, and release the negative energy.

But the ritual also becomes a celebration as the circle of friends communally express their deepest thoughts and feelings for Jane, honour their friend and give testimony to her life.

One by one the women took a ribbon, tied an item to it, tied the ribbon to the stick and spoke a few words...Clara reached into her head and pulled out a duck barrette. She tied that to a bright yellow ribbon and the ribbon to the now festooned prayer stick...Clara pulled a banana out of her pocket, and tied it to the stick, for Lucy...From her other pocket she drew a playing card. The Queen of Hearts. (Kindle, Still Life, p.254) 

Together they are able to take some control over their fears, restore some balance and peace of mind, re-affirm their connection with each other and Jane. 

The women looked around and saw their circle was no longer bound by fear, but was loose and open. And in the center, on the spot Jane Neal had last lived and died, a wealth of objects played, and sang the praises of a woman who was much loved. (Kindle, Still Life, p.255)

I was quite taken by Louise Penny's use of ritual, and it's meaning in terms of identity, comfort and healing. So I thought about it a bit, its socio-cultural perspectives, the extent to which ritual (as symbolic observances of beliefs and traditions) plays a part in our lives, how we engage with it (as a community, family, and individual) at various stages in our lives, or at particular times -- rites of passage, seasonal events, and certain religious practices and secular events steeped in tradition, come to mind.

And I wondered where rituals exist meaningfully in my own life, at a personal and family level. Not as much as they once did, I think.  I came to this conclusion once I’d sorted out the finer points about custom, tradition and ritual! One way or another they are about identity and communication of beliefs and values, and patterns of behaviour. But it's really the ‘performance’ element, the prescribed actions with their symbolic meanings, that makes something a ritual.

I just had to throw this in! It's a fabulous example of ritual in the sporting world. It's the Haka of the New Zealand All Blacks (international rugby team), a traditional, rhythmic and synchronous invocation of identity, unity, power and challenge.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiHhinpo-UM 

Louise Penny reminds us, too, that ritual can also be an individual and private event, with Agent Isabelle Lacoste’s affirmations to the dead at every crime scene.

...Isabelle Lacoste was still there. Speaking to the dead. Reassuring them Chief Inspector Gamache and his team were on the case. They would not be forgotten. (The Cruellest Month, Kindle, p.143)

When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten. (A Trick of the Light, Kindle, p.217)

And there is still more meaning to be found in these Three Pines’ rituals. Not only do the ritual cleansings in Still Life and in A Trick of the Light serve to help the friends to re-balance, take control and re-affirm their connection. They are also downright enlightening! It seems that another causal effect (must be something to do with the way they evoke the senses or heighten perception) is the discovery of key pieces of evidence at the ritual sites! 

And what about food?

Food rituals are central to many religions and cultures and rites of passage. We can all think of observances, occasions and festivals, celebrations in our own life or across cultures, where food and drink is steeped in symbolic meaning, as complex as fasting and feasting rituals, or as simple as the birthday cake, making a wish and blowing out the candles.
Perhaps you have a favourite to share? 

So what has all this got to do with French Canadian pea soup. Well not a lot, apart from the fact it was served at the Bistro at the time the smudging ritual was planned. But it is a reminder of the long tradition of this dish (or variations of it) across many cultures and times. Québécois Soupe Aux Pois dates back to the 17th century explorer, Samuel De Champlain. Personally, I date pea soup back to my childhood and can still recall the wonderful smoky aroma of it, on a cold autumn or winter's day, as my mother placed it on the table saying with a wry smile, "Here! This will glue your sides together." And it did! And it was delicious! 

I haven't thought about pea soup for a long time. And it's probably because I'm no longer a meat eater. Well now I've rediscovered it, and found a way of making a rich and satisfying meatless version...almost. I do make my own chicken stock as the soup base. A vegetable stock, of course, can be made for a strict vegetarian version. With careful attention to building the flavours of the stock, and of the peas and accompanying vegetables, the result is a rich, deeply flavoured version.

The stock can be made ahead of time. I simply add two chicken chops and a carcasse to about 3.5 litres/3.5 quarts of water and 2 chunks of ginger root, and let it lightly simmer until reduced by approximately a third. I taste it as it reduces and add pure sea salt (no additives unlike table salt), bit by bit, to enhance the flavour, but not to overpower.
If you are making the traditional pea soup, salted pork, ham hock or bacon bones added to the water that the peas and vegetable are cooked in, will provide the requisite rich smoky flavour, and also some meat as it melts from the bones. 

Pea soup:

1 brown onion

2 cloves of garlic
2 carrots
1 stalk of celery
2 fresh bay leaves
1 tablespoon of fresh thyme
3 to 4 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
2 cups of dried split peas, par boiled if preferred
2.5 litres/2.5 quarts chicken (or vegetable) stock

Finely chop the onion, garlic, carrots and celery. Gently fry these in olive oil that has been lightly heated in a large soup pot. With the lid on, let them sweat but not brown. Add the bay leaves, thyme and a pinch of salt and pepper, continuing to cook them over low heat. Slow cooking and a little seasoning helps to draw out the sweet flavour of the vegetables and the aromas of the bay and thyme.

Don’t hurry this process.
Add the par-boiled split peas and stir through. Add the stock and cook gently allowing the flavour to build. Stir occasionally and taste. Bit by bit (so you don’t over season), add some salt, and taste. The salt is used to bring out more complex flavours, but not to make the soup salty.

What comes through strongly is the deeply rich, earthy flavour of the peas themselves, which is a highlight in this dish. At the end of cooking I just blitzed the soup with a stick blender to create a smoother consistency for serving in a mug.

Soup and bread go so well together (just like Myrna and Clara). But freshly baked bread rolls filled with lusciously creamy Brie takes it to another level. And it's oh so filling! The meal was complete.

Well, there were no symbolic rhythmic movements around the table or chanted invocations, apart from a few mumbled "mmm, yum" between mouthfuls, but I might need to start up a new tradition! This soup is back on the menu!