Cooking with mom is more than just preparing a meal; it’s an act of love and tradition, a ritual that weaves together flavors and memories. Today, we’re making kale soup, a dish that’s as nourishing for the soul as it is for the body.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the comforting hum of the refrigerator and the soft clinking of utensils. Mom stands at the counter, her hands expertly tearing the kale into bite-sized pieces, each movement a silent testament to the years she’s spent feeding our family. I watch her for a moment, taking in the scene. The kale is a vibrant green, like the color of spring just after a rain.
“Wash these for me, will you?” she asks, handing me the leaves. As I rinse them under cold water, I think about how this simple vegetable will transform into something magical in her hands. It’s more than just a meal, though. Kale soup has become a symbol of Mom’s uncanny ability to sense when I’m not feeling my best. Whether it’s a head cold or just a down day, she seems to have a sixth sense about it.
There have been countless times when I’ve walked into the house after a rough day, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. Before I can even utter a word, the warm aroma of kale soup hits me, a familiar and comforting scent that instantly lifts my spirits. I find Mom in the kitchen, stirring the pot with a gentle smile. The unspoken question in her eyes – “How was your day?” – melts away any defenses I might have built up. But her words would say something simpler, something that spoke volumes: “I made soup. Do you want some?” With every spoonful, all my worries would subside. Any aches I felt physical or otherwise would subside as if by magic.
The pot is already on the stove, a gentle bubble breaking the surface of the broth. Mom adds the kale, and the sizzle as it hits the hot liquid is like applause. She smiles at me, a silent invitation to join in the dance of cooking. I chop the potatoes, the knife finding a rhythm on the cutting board. Mom moves on to the chourico, slicing it into thick coins. The aroma is intoxicating, a spicy promise of the meal to come.
We work side by side, a symphony of small tasks that come together in harmony. There’s a comfort in this routine, a language of love spoken through the sharing of tasks and the blending of ingredients. Nestled beside the pot sits a large glass jar, its label long worn away. Inside lies a jumble of uncolored pasta shapes – the ever-evolving “noodle jar.” This jar holds the remnants of countless pasta purchases, a testament to Mom’s resourceful shopping habits. Elbows one week, tiny polka-dotted pasta the next, sometimes even rogue spirals, or alphabet letters would manage to sneak their way in. My favorite, though, were always the little stars. Adding a handful of these plain white noodles to the pot was like adding a sprinkle of cheer, a tiny constellation waiting to be discovered in each spoonful.
As the soup simmers, we sit at the kitchen table, sipping tea and sharing stories. The steam from the pot fogs up the window, turning the world outside into a watercolor painting. It’s in these moments, surrounded by the warmth of the kitchen and the company of my mom, that I’m reminded of the power of cooking to bring people together.
We weren’t well off, but we knew how to get by. Counting every penny, scouring every sale. We may not have had enough to go on vacations, but we never had to worry where our next meal came from. Thanks to my mom and her mother and grandmother before her. It was a tradition passed down through generations, this art of resourcefulness. They knew how to stretch a dollar, how to turn leftovers into new dishes, how to use every last scrap. Nothing was wasted. It wasn’t just about saving money, it was about making the most of what we had, about creating something delicious and comforting even on a shoestring budget.
This tradition stretches back to the Azores, the windswept islands where my grandmother grew up. By the time she was a teenager, with a spirit as wild as the ocean breeze, she already knew how to make and mend clothing, care for babies; she was one of 18. She could cook, clean, milk the cows, scale and prepare fish, or pluck and prepare a bird. Oh, in case you’re wondering; yes, she even baked. In fact that’s how she meet my grandfather.
One crisp morning, while the tang of salt clung to the air, she found herself in need of a cup of flour. Flour for bread, a simple necessity, yet her family’s pantry was bare. With a deep breath and a fluttering heart, she approached the neighboring farm.
While the story of my grandparents’ meeting may not be exactly what I imagined, the spirit of resourcefulness and the love that binds our family together is undeniable. That spirit lives on in my mom’s kitchen. The random noodles in the jar, the way she used leftover bits of vegetables in omelets, the careful way she saves day-old bread rolls to slice and make toast for the morning – all these are echoes of my grandmother’s story, a testament to the women who came before us.
When the soup is ready, we ladle it into bowls, the kale now tender, the potatoes soft, and the chourico lending a rich depth to the broth. Nestled amongst the vibrant vegetables are the stars and noodles, a playful reminder of Mom’s resourcefulness and the joy she finds in unexpected places. Mom always adds a generous helping of red kidney beans to the pot. They’re my favorite, and with a sly wink, she sometimes mashes a few against the side of the pot, thickening the broth ever so slightly.
We sit down to eat, and with each spoonful, I can taste the history, the love, and the care that went into making it. Cooking kale soup with mom isn’t just about the food; it’s about the bond we share and the traditions we keep alive with every meal. If I am eating kale soup, I feel like I am home. The warmth of the food seeps into my soul, a reminder of the strong women who came before me, the ones who faced challenges head-on and built a legacy of love and resourcefulness, all passed down through a simple bowl of soup.