Looking out my backdoor: Tomato soup for the soul

My Grandma came to live with us when I was four so that my Dad didn’t have to farm me and my sister out to relatives. Grandma was a good cook and taught me the learn-it-by-doing-it method. She told me that she had to bake bread every day raising her own seven children and she didn’t intend to bake another loaf of bread.

Funny, she made bread rolls every Sunday and the pies, cakes, cinnamon rolls, cookies that rolled out of her oven were bountiful and delicious.

There were things Grandma did that I followed without thought.

Remembering back, I can see red and white cans of soup lined up in the cupboard. Grandma often made us soup for lunch, straight from the iconic Campbell’s can. I know Grandma fed her own children homemade soup. There wasn’t money to buy canned goods of any kind during the Depression.

What could be more simple? Open the can, dump into a sauce pan, add water for straight tomato or milk for creamy tomato. Heat and eat.

I don’t even like it much. But in a pinch, a quick meal of tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich hits the spot.

In later years, I looked forward to my Dad picking me up at the train station in Havre. We always went straight to the 4-B’s for their homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich.

Three large, perfectly beautiful, perfectly ripe, red, red Roma tomatoes sat on my counter. Some ideas drop out of the sky. This one did not come from my head. “I’ll make tomato soup.”

Because I can, because I don’t have to adhere to a schedule, I have the option to cut no corners. First I gathered onion, garlic, and bell pepper to go with my three lovely red globes.

I roasted the bell pepper over flames to take off the waxy covering and enhance the flavor. I chopped some onion and garlic and put them in a sauce pan with butter. Poured boiling water over the tomatoes and slipped off the skins. Chopped tomatoes and put them in a bowl. Cleaned, seeded and chopped part of the pepper and put it with the onion and garlic to simmer.

Once the onions were translucent I put the tomatoes in the pot, added water to cover, a little chicken consume, one very small piloncillo, the equivalent of a tablespoon of brown sugar, and continued simmering to blend flavors and reduce the whole mess. Outside, I grabbed a handful of cilantro, a generous sprig of oregano, three leaves of marjoram because a little fresh marjoram goes a long way, and a clutch of basil and chopped those leaves and added to the simmering pot. Oh, yes, salt and pepper to taste.

I want to let you know, this takes a lot longer than opening a can. So I went outside to read my book for 20 minutes, a nice little rest break while the flavors blended and simmered. The smells were making me hungry.

Once the liquid had reduced to about half, I let the whole potful cool, read a couple more chapters. Dumped all that into the blender and whizzed it.

In the same pot, now empty, I melted butter and stirred in flour, making a roux. I wanted creamy tomato soup, so I poured in a couple cups of milk. (Water for plain tomato soup.) Once it began to thicken, I added the tomato-veggie-herb mix, added more milk, stirring constantly, until it was the consistency I wanted.

Like I said, this takes longer than opening a can. By now I am drooling. As soon as the soup was hot, I ate a bowlful. Then I ate another bowlful.

But I wasn’t finished yet. No, not done. Next I went around to the neighbors and bragged, “I will never open another can of tomato soup.”

I can’t explain it, but that soup was begging to be made. Sometimes a simple meal is the most satisfying. Mmm-umm. Homemade tomato soup. With bread fresh from the oven.

Why did I not make tomato soup until now? I simply never thought of it. Or was it that tomatoes were so hard to come by in winter-dominated Montana? I remind myself that my tomatoes are field-ripened and not shipped 2,500 miles in a refrigerated truck.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.