Ode to Soup

Pardon me while I sing the praises of soup for a minute.

–insert poem here–*

I love soup.  All soup–hot, cold, creamy, brothy, chunky, smooth, spicy, soothing.  Soup.

It’s warming in winter, cooling in summer (I make a mango soup that’ll blow your mind–there might be champagne involved).  You can make it ahead and reheat it at the last minute.  You can make it spicy when you have a cold, and it’ll clear out your sinuses.  You can make it rich and starchy when you just need comfort. You can use it as a vehicle for veggies.  Or protein.  Or fiber.

It’s a meal-in-one, or a light first course, or a really special dessert.  It can be elegant and refined, or substantial and homey.  You can dump it out of a can and nuke it in the microwave, or you can spend two days creating perfection in your stockpot.  You can stick with the classics you grew up with, or branch out and explore soups from around the world (in Japan, miso soup is breakfast food).

Soup is the perfect diet food–all the liquid makes it filling, but low in calories.  And it’s the easiest category of food I know of to make low-fat without compromising the flavor.  Most soup recipes are flexible and adaptable, rarely relying on mastery of a demanding technique or fancy equipment.  Many soups freeze well, and most show up fairly well on day two, as leftovers.  As a matter of fact, a lot of soups evolved as a way to use up leftovers–the ultimate in frugality.  You can stretch a soup by adding stale bread, give it a fancy Italian name (ribollita), and you have a gourmet delight.

You can throw in some alphabet-shaped pasta, and make little kids laugh.  Or you can sprinkle some shaved truffle or imported caviar on top, and swoon over a porcelain bowl with your Valentine.  You can make soup for one, or soup for fifty.  A small bowl of clear, steaming broth can be a meditation, or a detox.  A bowl of chunky textures and fragrant spices can be a riot in a bowl.  You can get drunk on soup–or get sober.  It can heal your soul, or dare you to break out of your shell.

I’m telling you–soup is where it’s at.  Get some now.

*I was going to write cute little poetic ditty about the glories of soup, but I’m not actually a poet, so . . . if you feel moved to compose a soup poem yourself, feel free to post it in the comments.  Bonus points for iambic pentameter.