A Pot of Soup for Leftover Bread

May 18th-May 21st

Yes, let us not count the number of times I change the name of this Substack (formerly Stories from the Second Half of Life to Sweet Fern Home). I’m trying to figure out what I am doing here (on this planet, in this body, with this life of mine) and changing the name of my letters seems to be the best way to work that out. I also lowered the monthly subscriber amount to $5 which is as low as Substack allows. Thanks for putting up with me. And being here.

Sunday, May 18th

A morning omelette with Italian meats, three eggs in shades of the sea, warm from the coop and a handful of grated raw cheddar. Herbs left on the window sill from last week wilting, they get chopped up and added: mountain mint, lemon balm, perennial onion, chives and sage. Do not be afraid to add mint to eggs, they liven the eggs and add a gorgeous fresh taste.

More decaf in a tiny cup, a splash of cream and then the drive to Boston to go help my daughter clear out her studio at Mass Art. After, Chloe asks if we can go to one of her favorite thrift stores, so we have a quick car picnic of hummus, avocado oil chips, more Italian meat and a lovely kombucha called Clear Mind that tasted of rosemary and mint.

We both find a few treasures. Among mine were two more tiny mugs for my coffee, a vintage swan planter that I believe to be Italian and a dream coat that I proceed to ruin when washing. Another dress I washed (that I had never washed before) with it stained the coat and now I am in the task of figuring out how to remove the stains. The coat was $5.00 but feels like vintage gold.

Back at home for dinner with myself, I fry up some of the leftover risotto into cakes. Add olive oil to a nice hot cast iron pan then form small pancake shaped risotto cakes to the pan and fry till crispy on both sides. These cakes make a strong case for making a bit too much risotto the night before. Add a poached egg on top and some freshly cracked pepper.

Monday, May 19th

The day after busyness I find myself pulled in, low energy. The winds today are wild and talks me out of walking the woods. A sink filled with dishes keeps time with my tiredness, I make my way through them and empty the dishwasher so the kids won’t fill the sink again. I avoid the dogs gaze, disappointed in me for not braving the winds outside.

I am craving a brothy meat sauce to pour over a bowl of rice pasta penne and I decide to make the sauce and then a soup. Two pounds of 80% ground beef browned in olive oil and salt then a big can of Italian tomatoes (can must say DOP to know they are truly from Italy) with their juices into the pot, each little tomato squished into the meat (use your hands, trust me). More salt, pepper and then a long slow cook. The fat from the meat mixes with the tomato juices and creates a soup like sauce. I love a thick rich sauce but sometimes I want my noodles to swim in the bowl. A few glugs of red wine into the pot and then I walk away and let it simmer until I cannot wait longer to take a bite.

As the sauce simmers I remove both of the vintage table cloths from the tables and add them to the wash. A fresh table setting for after Chloe’s graduation Thursday is forming in my mind. Pussy willow branches and candles with a homemade rhubarb pie as the centerpiece.

Tuesday, May 20th

Kitchen chores begin with emptying garbage and recycling, bringing the chicken the scraps of food and some fresh water. Too windy to walk again today and the dogs and I feel anxious. Vertigo is settling into my head. I bring a cup of coffee outside to the wind and let the dogs track the coyote that has been taking our chicken.

Another omelette with crumbled pork sausage and raw cheddar cheese topped with salsa. Tiny mug of coffee. Peri-menopause demands more protein and I obey. I’ve been using a hydrogen water bottle and it makes filling myself with water easier because I don’t like the taste of most waters. This hydrogen water process changes the flavor just enough for me to get entire bottles into my body.

I put the pot of sauce back on the stove. I add another can of tomatoes, squished between my hands. A few handfuls of green garlic, sliced (use leeks if green garlic isn’t available) and some baby bok choy thinly chopped up. A couple of golden potatoes get a dice and I throw them into the pot with just a tiny bit of hot water and lots more salt and pepper.

There is a rind from a Parmesan cheese so I add that too. A long, slow cook today.

Wednesday, May 21st

More tiny coffee. Finally, the walk through darkness with the dogs, 4:45 am and the wind has stopped for just long enough to let us feel our wild. Chores begin with the dishwasher and getting the house ready for the two teens to navigate their way while I am gone later. If you leave a clean sink, you can see who actually washes up after themselves.

A large cast iron pan, nice and hot. Lots of rich olive oil and then the left over sourdough ciabatta torn into big hunks. Salt, pepper and time. You have to be patient when toasting leftover bread in a pan. When one side is browned toss it around and coat the bread well with the oil and seasonings, add more if you think you must. Toast the other side.

I load up the soup pot and put the cooled bread into a bag with lots of grated Asiago cheese. Pepper is tickling my nose and this three day soup is going to be a treat. I drive to NH to finish getting our Airbnb ready with Dave who has been there for days and days, a man who needs a beautiful soup.

We eat on the sun porch looking at the dark gray sky. There is a fire in the wood stove and I’ll make one at home tonight when I drive back. Graduation is tomorrow in Boston, I have flowers to arrange in a huge bouquet and a house to clean up. I ate pieces of cold toasted ciabatta bread from the bag as I drove home. Sometimes meals are a pot of three day soup and others some bits of bread and sourdough crumbs.

This is home. This is love and magic and beauty. This is what I am after, months after feeling lost from it, buried deep in the earth, waiting for myself to find a way back up to the light. It begins here.

It begins in the rhythm of each day’s tiny mug of coffee and walk through woods on a dirt and rock path. A magical blue soup pot that breathes hope into me as I set another table and prepare for the next meal, the next plunge of my hands into hot soapy water, the next day that comes.

I welcome you into my kitchen where marble counters fill with baskets of onions and eggs and bread moves from levain to crumb. This is where the chores of beauty are rhythm and I’ll pour you a tiny coffee and we can sit on wooden stools and remember our magic woven into the lace and stacked among the pottery bowls.