“Soup’s on. Come and get it!”
As a child, mom’s favorite meal was a hearty bowl of soup. Dad’s, too, especially on a cold winter’s day.
A bowl of tomato soup with a generous hunk of bread put sustenance on the table. Sometimes, it was straight out of a can. But mostly, my grandmother was the chief cook and bottle washer. She brought her own soup recipes from the old country.
We tried them all. As I recall, lentil was a popular serving, followed by gumbo and pea soup as thick as molasses. Except for peanut butter.
My father’s favorite was peanut butter soup. You could almost stick a knife into it and cover your toast. There was always a cauldron of soup simmering on the stovetop, whether you wanted it or not. My family loved the convenience of a one-dish meal.
Did you know that records of the first types of soups date back to 6,000 BC? And the main ingredient was the hippopotamus. Yup, it’s unimaginable but true. Every culture in the world would feature its own types of soup. And Armenians are no different.
Some are thick, some thin. Others are spicy. I like mine somewhere in between. Given a choice, I would prefer Italian. Give me a good bean soup with pasta and I’m in heaven with a dash of garlic powder and freshly ground pepper. “Mmm, mmm good” as the Campbell’s jingle goes.
I cannot dine Chinese without a bowl of hot and sour soup. Or Greek without my egg lemon soup, which they call “avgolemono.” Lemon soup will do just fine. I’m not much for chowders but will indulge with corn now and then. I’m not too big with fish or clam chowder, but that’s me. Others will constantly remind me what I’m missing.
In restaurants, I am constantly in pursuit of a good French onion soup with cheese crusted on top. It’s almost a meal in itself. If you want to count chili, make mine beef, not turkey. But I will enjoy a good turkey orzo soup. My wife has a wonderful recipe.
At a friend’s house one evening, they served up a tempting Hungarian soup made of beet, onions, red peppers, and paprika powder, calling it “goulash.” Needless to say, I needed a full glass of ice water to douse the fire that burned in my stomach.
I like coconut but never in my wildest dreams would have ever indulged in coconut soup—until one evening when I was aboard a cruise ship in the Caribbean. I noticed it on the menu and decided to give it a chance.
“It’s very popular with our crew,” the waiter suggested, obviously looking to pitch it. “We prepare it with fresh coconut milk.”
Not bad, I have to admit. It was the only night they offered it.
Check out my home library and you’ll find a collection of those “Chicken Soup for the Soul” books. I love a quick read, especially stories that motivate me. There’s even one marked “Chicken Soup for the Writer,” which was written for me.
So there I was one day, photographing a wedding reception. Like I always used to do, I’d stake out an empty chair at some table and go about my business of taking candid shots of the guests.
This would be followed by table shots, each systematically posed with half the guests seated and the other half standing behind. It took a little time to line it up.
“Save my place at this table,” I told a guest. “It might be awhile before I’m seated for dinner. Just let the waitress know I’m on the floor taking pictures.”
Off I went and on came the food. First the salad and what appeared to be containers of soup. My mouth started to water. How often do you get soup at a wedding?
By the time I covered every table and got my pictures, a half hour had passed and people were well into their roast beef. I took my seat, ready to eat.
“You might want to call the waitress over for a fresh helping of soup,” a guest recommended. “It’s probably cold by now.”
How cold could it be? Even lukewarm wouldn’t be bad, I thought. Well, this was downright chilled. I ordered another helping from the waitress and it tasted just like it came from the freezer.
It was then, as the entire table went into hysterics, that I realized the error of my ways. What they had served was gazpacho, made of raw vegetables with a tomato base—and meant to be served chilled.
Tom Vartabedian
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