Back at home, I began to make soup for myself. I found I would get out a stock pot when the afternoon was stormy, or when there was bad weather in my head. The repetition of chopping focused me on the task, leaving no room for the anxieties that simmer inside my brain.
When I am in a really horrible mood, I put on the opera Carmen and make minestrone. I start with stock and dried cannellini beans, pull out every vegetable in the fridge, add a chunk of Parmesan rind, and by the end, my emotions are calmed. My house begins to smell like a home, cozy and inviting. Carmen suffers her tragic end but I am still there, drizzling pesto on a fragrant bowl of soup, wholly satisfied.
So cooking soup has become a ritual that fortifies me in more ways than one. During the week, I roast a whole chicken. After a few meals, I throw the bones into a pot with celery, carrots, onion, a bay leaf, and some peppercorns, to make broth. Over the weekend, I turn the broth into soups to match my moods: a seafood chowder to evoke summer on a sunny afternoon, a cumin-and-cinnamon-spiced Moroccan beef stew to brighten a dreary winter day, earthy sweet potato and lentil soup after a long, brisk hike. I have a bowlful for Sunday dinner, then cool the rest to freeze in quart-sized bags. After a couple of weeks of making different soups, my freezer is full: When I return from a busy day, or need to grab lunch, my meals are right there, healthy and ready to heat.
Next: How to make a batch of soup really last