Christmas Eve Ritual

I love soup. I love just about every kind of soup there is. I love silky bisque composed of nothing but the essential flavor of one or two ingredients plus cream. I love big, chunky soup full of vegetables and pasta, shimmering in a tomato broth. To this day, after a two week stint in Martha's Vineyard when all we ate was clams the only way I can enjoy the little bivalves is in chowder. But oh, what enjoyment...little bits of clam and tiny cubes of potato bathed in sea-tinged cream - again with the cream.

When I was a singleton I ate a lot of soup. I could make a big pot of it, stowing away the bulk in the freezer for any time. I probably had soup at least twice a week, if not more. I experimented with "exotic" soup during that period: carrot soup, lentil soup...I tried to recreate my Mum's potato and corn chowder, which never tasted quite as amazing as hers but would do.

I was a big fan of avgolemano, that glorious Greek combination of lemon, chicken and rice. One year I worked the lunch shift at a Greek restaurant. I had to be at work by 10am, for an 11am opening. Since most nights I was out clubbing, and since the restaurant was a 5 minute walk from my flat, I would roll out of bed at 9:45, pull on a skirt and blouse and hie to the restaurant. I'd pour myself a cup of coffee, dip up a bowl of fresh avgo and that was my breakfast every morning for a year. I never grew tired of it. Thick and yellow but with that bright hit of lemon...it was gorgeous soup.

But alas and alack, I married a man who is not a fan of soup. He enjoys a good stew, thick with chunks of meat, but soup not so much. He hates minestrone, loathes tomato soup and merely tolerates the rich bisques I sometimes make for dinner parties, but only because it is one course and I usually serve the soup in martini glasses (for a more dramatic presentation, don't you know) and so it is over quickly.

Most of the time I don't mind the absence of soup from our menu. But in the winter it is a challenge because these are the days that cry out for soup. Not just for the satisfying warmth of a bowlful, perhaps with a dollop of sour cream and always with some nice, crusty bread for dipping but also for the satisfaction of an afternoon that is perfumed by a big kettle of something simmering away on the hob. Sigh.

There is one time when I manage to get away with soup for dinner and that is Christmas Eve. That day is always a busy one, what with us waiting until then to put up the tree and green the house. There is the last of the wrapping to do and the first of the preparations for the next day's feast. And then there is the late afternoon get-together at the grand and stately Sorrento Hotel with SCG and her family before going off to hold our places in the Cathedral for the 5:30 vigil Mass. No time to think about dinner, plus we'll each some elegant and massively overpriced noshes at the hotel. That will hold us but we'll be a little peckish by the time we return home, around 7pm and by then I'll have no interest in preparing a "real" dinner.

Soup is the convenient choice, but it is more than that. My best friend from college days was married right after we graduated and the traditions she and her husband instituted were very influential. To my mind, everything they did was tinged with elegance and romance. They always had soup and bread and wine on Christmas Eve and that became my standard. I too began to have such a supper, whether I was dating someone at the time or not. That meal was imbued with ritual. There was (still is) a French bakery in the Public Market and I would go down to get a fresh loaf of bread for the Christmas Eve soup, something round and crusty, with the word Noel written out in dough. (Not living as close to the Market these days, I have foregone that bit of the tradition, although I sometimes make my own loaf and decorate it for the season).

So it is that I still serve a soup supper on Christmas Eve. All that is required is to warm the soup, make a quick salad and serve. Still mostly full from whatever treats we had at the hotel, The Spouse is more tolerant of a liquid diet and I can indulge in a meal that is more than food; it is a cherished ritual. That Christmas Eve bowlful is a symbol to me of all the years when I didn't have someone. And now I do. Two someones, who I love very much. Even though one of them doesn't much care for soup.

Chantrelle Soup


Dust clean and slice 1 # fresh chantrelles. Saute in butter, with 1 clove finely minced garlic, until mushrooms are tender.

Deglaze pan with a shot of dry sherry.

Strain off liquid and reserve. Roughly chopped the mushrooms and set aside.

Return liquid to a large saucepan and add in one quart of rich chicken stock. Simmer to blend flavors, about 15 minutes.

Stir about 1/2 c. of cream into broth to thicken and add salt and pepper to taste.

Return mushrooms to broth to reheat.


Garnish soup with edible flowers.

Melon Soup

Strictly speaking, I don't find myself a big fan of chilled soups. Soup is for cold winter nights, when you need something hot and sustaining to give you hope that spring will someday return. But it just isn't the sort of thing one thinks of first on a warm summer evening.

That said, The Child and I were planning a menu for a baby shower and she remembered a melon soup that I'd made once long ago. I had no recollection of it and couldn't find the recipe, but the idea had appeal. It's easy, it looks pretty and we were going for an easy, pretty, elegant vibe for the menu.

When in doubt, ask Martha. I found this recipe on her site and didn't change it a lick. It wasn't the least bit fussy but the mix-and-match element of it sounded fun. And it was. The two soups were delicious, although I think the honeydew was the favorite. When I make it again, and I will, I think I'll make the honeydew for everyone with just a dollop of the canteloup for counterpoint.

It was served it in martini glasses, which is something I've done for hot soup as well. It's an elegant presentation and it makes the serving size just right when the soup is served as a course and not the main event. It might have been the glasses that made Stina think that mixing the soup with vodka would result in a spectacular summertime drink. I could see it, blended with ice to make a kind of adult smoothie. It would also have been perfectly fine for dessert but as it was, coming between the bruscetta and chicken salad, it was a surprising, refreshing twist.

And did I mention that it was easy?

Bastille Day Boullaibaise

On this day in 1790 a mess of French people stormed the Bastille, a big prison that was the symbol of all the evils wrought by French kings and queens during their centuries of rule and cake-eating.

There were only a few prisoners in the Bastille at the time, most misdemeanors, like ordering vin blanc with steak and dressing badly. But it was a powerful gesture and touched off what we now know as the French Revolution, without which we would not have the Statue of Liberty or Freedom Fries. So there.

I love the French, as you well know, and am part French myself so we will celebrate. Because I will use just about any excuse for a party.

First we're going over to The Neighbor's for cocktails with the couple that lives next door to her. They have been renting the house for over a year now and we talk over the fence and say things like "We really should get together". So we finally are. I'm going to make some lavender honey to pour over crotins of chevre, which will be served with crackers.

After aperitif we'll come back home to listen to Edith Piaf and eat our traditional Bastille Day supper of bouillabaisse with lots of crusty baguette. I'm going to say "yum" now. Yum.

Here's my recipe for bouillabaisse, which I simplified from a very simple recipe in Pat Wells' At Home in Provence. Traditionally, you make a fish stock from the bones and heads of fish before you start the soup. She does this as well but I don't bother. I find that my version is fishy enough without that trouble and besides, it's gross. It makes me sing that song, "Fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads. Fish heads, fish heads, eat them up, yum". Which is fun but that's as far as I really want to go.

This is also a very straightforward soup, using only one type of fish. If you are the sort who likes lots of sea creatures swimming in your bouillabaisse nothing is to prevent you from adding those in but I like the simplicity of a good fennel infused tomato broth with nice chunks of white fish. Adapt as your tastes demand.


I also have a ritual of drinking pastis while making the soup, which does nothing in particular to the end result but adds a sense of occasion to the experience.

Bouillabaisse
2 pounds of firm white fish such as monkfish, grouper, or cod
3 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 head garlic, cloves separated and peeled
1 t. fennel seeds
Bouquet garni of parsley, celery leaves, fresh bay leaves and sprigs of thyme, bound up between the 2 halves of a stalk of celery
2 t. sea salt, or to taste
2 T. tomato paste
2 T. pastis
1 28 oz. can of diced tomatoes with juice
1 and 1/2 quarts water
1/4 t. cayenne pepper
1 small fennel bulb, trimmed, quartered lengthwise and cut into bite-size pieces
small pinch of saffron threads
grated zest of 1 orange
3 T. minced fennel fronds

Aiolï (home-made or a good store-bought version)

Cut the fish into 3 inch pieces.

In a large, heavy stockpot, heat the oil over moderate heat until hot. Add the garlic, fennel seeds, bouquet garni, and salt. Cook gently without browning for 8 to 10 minutes.

Add the tomato paste, pastis, canned tomatoes, water and cayenne. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Lower the heat and simmer for 45 minutes.

Remove and discard the bouquet garni. Using an immersion mixer, roughly puree the liquid. (Or run everything through the coarse blade of a food mill and return to the stockpot). Taste & adjust seasoning.

Add the fennel, cover and simmer gently until the fennel is soft 15 minutes. (If you want, you can do this way ahead of serving time).

When ready to serve, bring the liquid to a very gentle simmer until heated through. Add the saffron and the fish. Lower the heat and cook gently just until tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

To serve, using a slotted spoon transfer portions of the fish and fennel to warmed bowls then spoon the broth over the fish. Sprinkle with orange zest and fennel fronds.

Pass the aiolï at table, so guests can swirl a teaspoon or two into their soup (or slather it on their bread or, like The Child, just eat it by the spoonful).

Serve with lots and lots and lots of crusty bread with butter.

Vive la France!