It's autumn. Time to harvest. Makes me remember Papo, my grandfather, and sweet afternoons in his kitchen.
TOMATO SOUP FROM HEAVEN
Only the pure in heart can make a good soup. Ludwig van Beethoven
I heard the soft creak of our front door.
From my upstairs bedroom, the sound was distant but distinct. I’d been in bed
for over a month with herniated disks in my back, and I was lonely. I knew a
visitor when I heard one.
“Baby Girl?” My grandfather’s voice traveled
up the stairwell. Same kind tone, same name he’d called me all my life, though
I was now well past a girlish state. I was thirty-something and pregnant with my
third son.
“Papo, come on up,” I called. I tried to
roll to my side, but even that was painful and difficult.
It seemed small ages before Papo ducked his
head through the door frame. He pulled his hat from his head and held it in his
worn hands. “How are you today, darlin?”
“Same, same, same, Papo. Ready to do
something different,” I said.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“What did you bring?” I couldn’t help but
smile. And I’d bet my beagle he’d brought his homemade tomato soup. I could
just imagine it, in blue-handled Kemp’s ice cream bucket, with the lid pressed
on for secure travel. It was about thirty miles from my grandparents’ door to
my bedside.
“Why, I’ll be,” he said. “What makes you ask
that?” Papo’s grin now matched my own.
“Is there soup in the kitchen?” I asked.
“I’ll bring you some up,” Papo said. He
walked into the bedroom and bent, slowly, to kiss the top of my head. Then he
disappeared. Out the door. Down the stairs. Into the kitchen to ladle some
soup.
Papo’s tomato soup had been a comfort food
stitch in the fabric of my life. He was a gardener long before my grandmother’s
health failed and he became the cook. The tomatoes for his soup came plump and
fresh from dark Mississippi River Valley soil. The weather could be too dry,
too wet. The blight would hit and sturdy tomato plants would spot and spoil,
yet somehow Papo’s plants would yield juicy tomatoes. He’d peel, cut, and cook
the tomatoes and seal them in clear, shiny Mason jars. When we were sick or sad
or just plain hungry, the jars would be extracted, one by one, from the shelf
in his basement. Then he’d pour them into his heavy, old stock pot. He’d add
creamy cold milk, garlic, seasonings, a spot of butter and pinches of parsley
and soda. The result would be thick and delicious, fresh and smooth, a slight
red that filled the bowls and tummies with something warm and wonderful.
Papo usually served his soup with crisp,
salty crackers, and he didn’t skimp. He didn’t let me down, that afternoon,
either. A few minutes later, Papo once again climbed the stairs, this time even
more slowly than the first. I could see a steaming bowl balanced on a tray,
crackers piled high on the side. I caught the garlicky aroma before he hit the
bedroom, and my mouth watered.
“Papo,” I said. “It was so kind of you to
bring me this soup. It smells amazing.” I tried to prop myself up
enough to support the tray on my lap. The sharp shoots of pain were softened by
Papo’s response.
“Oh, darlin. I wish I could do more,” he
said. His hands shook slightly as he placed the tray over my legs.
I reached out to embrace my grandfather. He
once again leaned in, careful to not upset my lunch. “Can you stay?” I asked.
“Your grandmother’s in the car,” he said.
“She just can’t make it up the stairs today. But she said she loves you. And
we’ll be back, soon.”
I could only imagine what he must’ve gone
through, transporting my poor, sweet grandmother to the car. Her legs had just
about given out and traveling was a real sacrifice.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too, Baby Girl,” Papo said.
Then he squeezed my hands and once again left the way he came. I sat alone, on
my bed, and sipped slow spoonfuls of soup. When the bottom of the bowl peeked
through, I tipped it forward to scoop every last drop. Funny as it sounds, the
flavor was more than tomatoes and garlic and cream. To me, hurting and alone,
the soup tasted like love.
A few months later, after a healthy delivery
and a healed back, Papo called me to his kitchen. He wanted to teach me to make
the soup. He’d instruct and I’d work, under his watchful eye. Then I’d go home
and try to make it for my family. The soup would scorch. The soda would turn
the kettle to a pink, frothy mess. I’d get too much garlic and we’d pant for water
like thirsty dogs. I just couldn’t get it. But my Papo was a patient man, and
we kept trying, until one day I hit it right. I didn’t understand it at the
time, but those moments stooped over the stock pot were in preparation.
A few years later, I no longer have the
blessing of learning in Papo’s kitchen.
And“How ‘bout some soup, Baby Girl?” no longer travels up the stairwell,
through the kitchen, from Papo’s heart to mine. But those words echo in my
memory, and they bring precious peace. When one of my five boys is hurting,
sad, or just needs some extra loving, I pull the copper-bottom stock pot from
the pantry shelf. I reach for tomatoes that I learned to “put up” for all
seasons. I stir the ingredients together and get the recipe just right. And I
remember my grandfather, dear sweet Papo, full of encouragement and love.
Then I sit at the table
with my son and enjoy tomato soup from heaven.
Papo's Tomato Soup:
2 T butter
2 T flour
4 c milk
1 qt home canned tomatoes (used crushed if using canned tomatoes from the store)
1/4 tsp baking soda
garlic powder, salt, pepper
Warm milk, in pan, over low/med heat. Add butter, stirring constantly. Sprinkle in flour.
Add baking soda to tomatoes.
While continuing to stir, add tomatoes to milk mixture (will froth a bit).
Season to taste with garlic powder, salt, pepper. Stir until creamy.
*Very important to use low/med heat. Don't boil...soup will curdle
-----------------------
Story and recipe as printed in
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Food and Love
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