The Things that Feed Us

I make pumpkin soup as the winds turn cold, finally.  Onions push around in olive oil and slip into transparency; a few pinches of cinnamon and nutmeg, plus a dash of cloves color the base; chopped garlic falls in and browns just a bit as I step away, forgetting the heat, when our neighbor peeks in with a question.

It’s an impatient soup.  Or rather, I’m impatient as I make it, thawing the frozen stock just enough to dump the block into the pot, smothering the sizzle of heat before throwing the top on to melt it faster.  In my mind are the piles of row cover waiting to be picked up in the garden, the black tarp that needs to be stretched over a six-bed block and weighed down with sandbags, the detritus around the skeleton greenhouse, whose ribs rise from the ground and bend to meet the spine, cold metal still waiting on the ridge vent assembly before plastic can stretch across its long body.

In my mind are Sherill and her daughter, our volunteers, who are here to help, and how I need to get outside before they leave so I can move along the pathways without my toddler clinging to my legs.

I don’t wait for the stock to fully thaw; I slop four big spoonfuls of pumpkin puree (fresh out of the oven, thanks to Sherill) into the pot, covering the remaining frozen disc, then give it a stir, plus some salt, and let it simmer.

I scatter myself back and forth, determining what to do before lunch, then rightly decide to just eat before heading out to the field.  Thankfully, Sherill thinks to stir the soup in my moments of distraction.  It’s been about thirty minutes when I add a swig of maple syrup and note aloud, “this isn’t going to be the best meal I’ve ever made.”

We ladle it into bowls anyway, mixing in left-over rice to give it some heft.

“Everything you and Edge make is good,” Sherill says.

And we eat for a moment in silence as the rice plays on my tongue, the pumpkin not too salty or sweet or spiced, but just full.  And I’m glad to be sitting, eating, tasting this spoonful.

I empty my bowl and pull a fleece over my wool shirt, find my hat and gloves, and step into the wind and drizzle of the day.

No one writes about the edge seasons in farming, about the seemingly endless clean-up and the tired look of garden beds going into winter.  I’m guilty as anyone of romanticizing this life, but guilty, too of swearing at it.  Sometimes it’s not romantic or easy or fun.  Sometimes it’s just work that needs to be done, piles that need to be picked up, trash that needs to be cleared.

Sometimes it’s rushed soup on a gray day.

And yet, at some point the soil goes so far into your skin, that sometimes it’s enough: that moment of pleasure when the meal turns out; the steady beat of my feet through the field; the things that feed us, even when we’re not paying attention.

 

Pumpkin Soup {recipe improv}

• Olive oil
• 1 medium onion, diced
• A few pinches cinnamon
• One pinch Nutmeg
• Half pinch Cloves

heat oil on medium and sauté onion until it is translucent.  Add in spices and mix together.

• Garlic, minced

add garlic and sauté a few more minutes

• 16 ounces chicken stock

add stock (if frozen, throw it in the pot anyway.  it will thaw)

• Pumpkin puree, 4-5 big scoops from a wooden spoon
• Whole milk, to your liking
• Salt, a few dashes

add pumpkin puree and salt.  stir to combine.  Let simmer for as much time as you have.  Soup gets better with time.  If don’t have much time, that’s okay.

• 3 second pour of Maple Syrup

stir in maple syrup.  serve whenever you’re hungry.

Here is the recipe I looked to for inspiration: Creamy Roasted Pumpkin Soup