Recently, as the inevitable autumnal lurgies descended upon our house, I found myself making soup for various ailing relatives. The act of doing so is practically instinctive. "Feeling poorly? Here, have some soup." After all, chicken soup has been nicknamed Jewish penicillin and even doctors recommend it as a remedy. But illness aside, we seem to retreat to soup when things aren't going our way; whether for a stressful day, a broken boiler or a broken heart, soup seems, if not to cure the pain, at least to ease the ache. I never used to be much of a soup-maker, but the minute I moved abroad I found myself cooking up various versions of minestrone at least three times a week. Soup may not be the equivalent of a hug, but it might just be the next best thing.
The power of soup (at least the homemade variety) lies in its simplicity. All it takes is some vegetables, some stock and a pan and you're well on the way. It probably shouldn't come as a surprise, then, that soup has been around for thousands of years. The recipes of ancient Mesopotamia (some of the earliest on record) include soups, and in her brilliant book Consider the Fork, Bee Wilson lists common ingredients and methods found in these recipes that form the blueprint of our cooking practices today: 'prepare water, add fat and salt...add meat, leeks and garlic; cook in the pot'. (38). The fact that soup continued to feature in diets throughout history is also due to the fact that (as Wilson explains) large pots or cauldrons were the sum of the cooking equipment of many. Meat, vegetables and grains were boiled together, sometimes separated into broth (which was poured over bread -- the "sop" ) with the vegetables eaten separately, the leftovers remaining in the pot to flavour tomorrow's dish (Wilson, 43). Soup was not reserved for bad days in medieval Britain -- it was daily fare. Which is perhaps why the act of eating a dish that is simply boiled together in a pot (whether it be porridge, soup or a stew) feels so fundamentally comforting, as it is a way of connecting with our agricultural ancestors. Concocted using the oldest methods and the simplest of ingredients, it really is the stuff of life.
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Of soup and love the first is best. Or so goes the proverb. I would argue that this depends on the soup in question -- none of that indistinguishable greeny-grey slop we used to get at university could surely trump the myriad of emotions that colour being in love. That said, it is interesting how soup and love seem to coincide. The act of giving soup seems to be indicative of care and compassion; whether for a loved one who is sick, or for a complete stranger. After all, we do not run sandwich kitchens or stew kitchens for the homeless, but soup kitchens. It is simultaneously both the humblest and the most honest show of compassion for others, an acknowledgement of our shared humanity and fragility. Even now, chefs from around the world have collaborated to raise funds for Syrian refugees by contributing soup recipes to the book Soup for Syria. In the face of such an extraordinary humanitarian crisis, it is perhaps significant that people have turned to soup in an effort to lessen the suffering of others; it demonstrates its symbolic nature as a gift to those in need. As Anthony Bourdain, one of the contributing chefs, commented: "Soup is elemental, and it always makes sense, even when the world around us fails to." We can only hope that a show of love such as this can help to make a difference. In this era of destruction, could soup help to change the world?
