Butternut Squash Soup with Gingerbread and Brown Butter

I recently revisited one of my favorite cozy neighborhood gems, Firefly, and was just smitten with their Fairy Tale Pumpkin Soup with Gingerbread Crouton, Golden Sage and Brown Butter. The flavors were spot on. Roasted butternut squash pureed to a luxurious, velvety texture, seasoned with brown butter and caressed by warm sage notes. It reminded me right away of a soup I discovered awhile back in Thomas Keller's Bouchon.

BOUCHON by THOMAS KELLER (Artisan Books) Copyright 2004. (Photo Credit: Deborah Jones)

TK's Butternut Squash Soup with Brown Butter, Sage and Nutmeg Crème Fraîche had a similar weak-in-the-knees-good effect on me with its layers of rich, harmonious flavors and that ethereal silkiness. (I connected the dots when I learned that Keller influence wasn't incidental. Firefly's new chef, Henry Zamora, previously trained at the French Laundry.)

With hot soup and butternut squash season upon us, I was inspired to recreate Firefly's fanciful rendition with homemade gingerbread. The gingerbread "crouton" was less of a typical crunchy crouton and more of a deep, dark, sticky square of dense bread, so my first step was to find a great recipe for gingerbread.

Black Sticky Gingerbread

I struck spicy sweet gold with Regan Daley's (In the Sweet Kitchen) Black Sticky Gingerbread recipe.

Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, allspice

The fragrance of ginger, cinnamon, and cloves filled the house as the bread baked up, instantly elating my mood and prematurely transporting me to Christmas time and fireplaces.

Grandma's Molasses

Plus, the combination of dark unsulphered molasses, local sage honey, brown sugar, and plenty of butter resulted in just the kind of gingerbread I looking for. Tall, dark, and handsome (minus the tall…and ok, the handsome…but definitely deep, dark, and rich). I'm for sure tucking this recipe away for the holidays – little mini loaves would make a pretty homemade gift.

With the gingerbread under my belt, I turned to my tried and true recipe for butternut squash soup from Bouchon. My one minor change: the gingerbread was so good I wanted it to shine on its own as the only accompaniment, so I omitted Keller's nutmeg-spiked crème fraiche and fried sage leaves garnish. I did, however, definitely keep in the finishing drizzle of brown butter. Giddy-up.

Butternut Squash Soup with Gingerbread and Brown Butter

Butternut Squash Soup with Gingerbread and Brown Butter

The soup portion of this recipe is excerpted from BOUCHON by THOMAS KELLER (Artisan Books). Copyright 2004.

Serves: 6

Ingredients:
One 3- to 3 1/2-pound butternut squash
2 tablespoons canola oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 sage sprigs
1 cup thinly sliced (1/8 inch thick) leeks, white and light green parts only
1/2 cup thinly sliced (1/8 inch thick) carrots
1/2 cup thinly sliced (1/8 inch thick) shallots
1/2 cup thinly sliced (1/8 inch thick) onions
6 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
2 tablespoons honey
6 cups Vegetable Stock, plus extra if necessary
Bouquet Garni
4 tablespoons (2 ounces) unsalted butter
Black Sticky Gingerbread

Preparation:

For the soup:
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a small baking sheet with aluminum foil.

2. Cut the neck off the squash and set it aside. Cut the bulb in half and scoop out and discard the seeds. Brush each half inside and out with about 1 1/2 teaspoons of the canola oil. Sprinkle the cavities with salt and pepper and tuck a sprig of sage into each. Place cut side down on the baking sheet and roast for about 1 hour, or until completely tender.

3. Remove the squash from the oven and set aside until cool enough to handle, then scoop out and reserve the flesh (discard the sage).

4. Meanwhile, using a paring knife or sharp vegetable peeler, peel away the skin from the neck of the squash until you reach the bright orange flesh. Cut the flesh into 1/2-inch pieces (these will be pureed, so don't be concerned if the pieces are irregularly shaped). (You should have approximately 4 cups diced squash.)

5. Put the remaining 1 tablespoon canola oil in a stockpot over medium-high heat, add the leeks, carrots, shallots, and onions, and cook, stirring often, for about 6 minutes. Add the diced squash, garlic, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper and cook gently for 3 minutes, reducing the heat as necessary to keep the garlic and squash from coloring. Stir in the honey and cook, stirring, for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the stock and bouquet garni, bring to a simmer, and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the squash is tender.

6. Add the roasted squash and simmer gently for about 30 minutes for the flavors to blend. Remove from the heat and discard the bouquet garni.

7. Transfer the soup to a blender, in batches, and puree. Strain the soup through a fine strainer into a bowl or other container, tapping the side of the strainer so the soup passes through. (Do not skip this step. Straining it is what gives this soup its incredible texture.) Taste the soup and adjust the seasoning. Let the soup cool, then refrigerate until ready to serve.

To complete:
1. Reheat the soup. If it is too thick, add a little more vegetable stock.

2. Heat a medium skillet over high heat. When it is very hot, add the butter and rotate the skillet over the heat as necessary to brown the butter evenly, scraping up any bits that settle in the bottom. As soon as the foaming has subsided and the butter is a hazelnut brown, pour it into the pot of soup, reserving some to drizzle on top of the soup as a garnish. (Be careful not to leave the butter over the heat too long, as it can change from rich brown to black in seconds.)

3. Ladle the soup into serving bowls. Top each with a piece of gingerbread. Drizzle the remaining brown butter over the top of each bowl.

When I'm sick, worn out, or just plain down in the dumps, I want chicken soup. I don't care if it's fancy. Heirloom turnips and herb pistous are not necessary. Just chicken soup, please -- nice and brothy with big chunks of chicken and minimal vegetables. Rice, pasta or matzo balls are all fine as long as the soup is homemade.

I've had a terrible month. The deaths of two people I love have made this autumn, with its golden leaves and dazzling sunshine, a little less bright. So it was no surprise when I came down with a cold. After being emotionally spent for a couple of weeks, and with two memorial services behind me, I think my body just decided it was time to spend a couple of days in bed.

In need of both emotional and physical comfort I turned to chicken soup. I hate to admit this as it seems the Chicken Soup for the Soul book series has turned this fundamental dish into something trite and hokey. Yet as much as I roll my eyes when I see those titles at my local book store, I have to admit the marketing department for the series publisher was on to something: there are few foods that heal and console like chicken soup.

Following is a very basic recipe that I used this week to cheer and bolster myself. You can easily find many other techniques out there that have more bling and panache, but when you're tired and sick, the essentials are the best choice to calm and reassure. Chicken. Broth. Carrots. Celery. Rice. United in a big steamy bowl, my nasal passages started to clear, and, I'm reluctant to admit, my soul was given a little boost.

Simple Chicken Soup
Chicken soup is made in two stages. First you need to make a rich stock using chicken, water and a few aromatics. This can be accomplished a day in advance. You then use the stock as the base of the soup, adding in the precooked chicken and anything else you like.

Chicken Stock
Makes: Enough for one large pot of chicken soup
Ingredients:
1 whole 3-4 lb chicken cut up (or 3-4 lbs chicken wings and thighs)
1 large yellow or white onion roughly chopped
1 large celery stalk roughly chopped
2 medium carrots roughly chopped
1 large or two small bay leaves
1 sprig fresh thyme or rosemary (not chopped)
Salt and pepper to taste
Enough water to cover ingredients by about 1-2 inches

Preparation:
1. Rinse chicken and place in a large stock pot along with all other ingredients plus 1 tsp salt and 1/2 tsp pepper and then add water.
2. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat to simmer. Cook covered for 1/2 hour.
3. Skim any foam that has formed off the top of the liquid and then simmer for another 30 - 40 minutes uncovered (you may need to raise the heat a bit).
4. Skim any remaining foam and then add more salt and pepper to taste. If the stock seems too watery, simmer uncovered for another 10 minutes.
5. Take chicken out of the pot and let cool while you strain the stock into a clean pot or bowl. Press the vegetables to make sure you release all the liquids and flavors.
6. Remove meat from the chicken and set aside. Refrigerate cooled stock and chicken if making ahead.

Chicken Soup
Makes: 1 large pot of soup
Ingredients:
Chicken stock (see above recipe)
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 large stalk of celery chopped
2 carrots chopped
1 large or 2 medium leeks cleaned and sliced thinly (you can substitute in onion)
Any other vegetables that sound comforting
Salt and pepper to taste
2 cups of your favorite rice or small pasta

Preparation:
1. In a large pot, sauté leeks, celery and carrots in olive oil over medium heat. Add a dash of salt and pepper and cook for five minutes.
2. Add chicken stock and chicken bring to a boil. Simmer on low for 15-20 minutes while you cook your rice or pasta.
3. When your rice or pasta is cooked, turn off soup. Spoon about 1/2 cup rice or pasta into a bowl and then ladle in soup. Eat and feel warm and soothed.

Note: Do not add rice or pasta to the soup pot as it will soak up the stock, making the rice or pasta mushy and leaving you with less liquid.

Dear readers, for the first time ever, I am writing a recipe. The dish is green garbanzo soup, a real seasonal palate-stunner. I invented it last weekend, when my girlfriend and I elected to have some friends over for dinner. Since we both were going to be busy during the day preceding the occasion, we shopped and did much of the cooking the night before. After drinking a few beers at the 500 Club and watching the wurst (Germany) come up short against the hams (Spain), I strolled down to Bi-Rite to rustle up ingredients: for the soup, a huge bag of garbanzos in their fuzzy green shells, a quart of chicken stock, a head of garlic, a leek, and way more hazelnuts than I needed. I had butter and good olive oil at home. I’d also stumbled across a few threads of tired-looking saffron tucked away in a cupboard.

I was all set. We had lots of dishes to prepare, of course, but the night before I was focused on crafting an enticing, verdant elixir with which to prime the appetites of our guests -- prior to the impending assault of assorted cheeses, breads, olives, pickled peppers, octopus and tomato salad, roasted corn relish, watermelon with salt, and two bastardized briks -- one with ancho-and-roasted tomato-stewed heritage pork, currants, and cilantro, and the other with morels, thyme, feta, beet greens, chard, and kale.

From green garlic shoots, to slender asparagus, to sweet early-season cherry tomatoes, I have, with regard to the realm of edible vegetation, a tendency to prize fresh young things. When I saw the green garbanzos nestled like weird little grubs in a big basket in the Bi-Rite produce case, I was consumed by the desire to harness their youth, pea-like flavor, and agreeably grassy pallor, and express them fully and vigorously in a simple yet well-calibrated dish. To work such magic, I began by chopping the leek and letting it slowly fall apart in a pot glazed over with a half-stick of butter. Meanwhile, I roasted four unpeeled cloves of garlic on a hot, dry cast-iron skillet, just the way Rick Bayless taught me. When the peels were flaking off, the exterior blackened in places, and the cloves delectably squishy to the touch, I turned off the burner, let them cool, peeled them, and stirred them into the pot with the creamy, cooked-down leeks. I added the stock, about a quart of water, and the saffron. Then, I realized I had forgotten to separate the beans from their pods. Cursing, I turned off the other burner, grabbed the bag of beans, and got to work.

About an hour, two beers, and two-and-a-half episodes of Eastbound and Down later, I shelled the last bean and headed back to the kitchen. When I heated up the pot again, I realized I’d severely misjudged the amount of beans I’d need. Each relatively large pod contains just one or two tiny pellets. I would have required a wheelbarrow to haul the quantity of beans I truly needed, and an entire television series to make shelling so many bearable. Cursing, I flung open the fridge. I would have to improvise. I spied half a head of cauliflower. The beans would, I thought, dance prettily with such fair white curds as a partner. I hacked the cauliflower up rather brutally and tossed it in the pot with the beans for a steamy dip. Fifteen minutes later, after a nice simmer, everything was tender. I turned off the heat and added salt and pepper.

That’s when I started -- as Dave Chappelle would say -- f**king up. Using a small, lidless blender better suited to smoothie-making instead of a food processor (ours fell prey to mold a few months ago), I tried to do the soup in four or five very small batches, covering the top with a plate. This was happening after 11:00 p.m., around the time I become capable of doing nothing besides sleeping, drinking, or watching movies requiring little intellectual investment. I should not have been cooking really, much less handling hot liquids. I accidentally pressed the “liquify” button instead of “puree”, and a surge of pale green came bubbling up, rattling the plate, sending a steaming froth cascading out and across the table and floor. I screamed like a small spoiled child, clutching my seared right forearm with my left hand, also incidentally very badly burned. Sickly drops flecked the wall next to the blender. I suddenly realized the front of my shirt was hot, wet, and green. Cursing, I dived for a towel. After mopping up what I could see in my exhausted haze, I limped off to bed.

I awoke to find a trail of ants the size and shape of a patch of body hair churning around the area of floor I’d soiled with soup and failed to properly clean. On the other hand, once strained, the soup -- now cool and the appealing color of green tea ice cream -- tasted fantastic -- rich and lively, with depth provided by the roasted garlic and the chicken stock, texture courtesy of butter and my hapless blender, the beans and cauliflower intertwined in a nutty, herbaceous, harmonious embrace. Later that night, we would serve it in tiny to-go espresso cups with toasted hazelnut crumbles, finely chopped parsley, and neat drizzles of olive oil. I botched the first cup by accidentally dumping in about a shot or two of oil -- and cursed -- but the rest turned out fine -- once I let the lady handle the pouring. Out in the dining room, conversation paused. Everyone was quiet, sipping away. My hand and forearm throbbed a little bit. I was sweating under my apron. So much shelling, so much spilling, so much cursing -- and yet the soup managed to hold. It was good, the way I’d wanted it to be. Things don’t always fall apart. The process of creating something so simple and easy might have been unnecessarily tortured and chaotic, but the result, blessedly, was pure and refined, even serene -- swirling green peace in the bottom of a soup spoon.

Happy 4th of July! To me, the 4th of July is a small-town holiday, and not just because of the inevitable disappointment of San Francisco's fog-shrouded fireworks. This is a day for shiny fire trucks and kids with red-white-and-blue ribbons woven through the spokes of their bikes riding down Main Street, for the scent of hamburgers grilling at the neighbors' house, for popsicles dripping sticky down your arm and the magic glow of sparklers in the deepening twilight, an appetizer to the fireworks booming over the high school football field.

Walking down the street in Novato, where I'm house-sitting for the next few weeks, every shop is festooned with flags, glitter, and red, white, and blue. From Mill Valley to Noe Valley, goofy patriotism wins the day when it comes to decor. Can there be too much bunting? Too many Uncle Sam hats covered in stars and stripes? Too many cupcakes topped with raspberries and blueberries?

Unlike, say, Thanksgiving, the 4th of July is a holiday where everyone wants to eat, but no one really wants to cook. For one, unless you live right in chilly San Francisco, it's too hot to be in the kitchen, not when there's ice-cold beer in the cooler and lemonade on the patio. Get someone--your husband, your butch spouse--to man (or woman) the grill, pile up the sausages, salmon, or burgers around them, hand them a cold drink and presto! Your entree is complete. There remains only the sides, and anyone can pour out a bowl of chips, put out some hummus and salsa (we're a melting-pot country, after all), toss together some potato salad and lay out the buns, pickles, lettuce and tomato.

Oh, would that it were that easy! I've been to many, many summer barbecues like that, and there's always a catch. You see, getting the grill started is the duty of the host. And somehow, the host is always too busy cracking beers and kicking back with the bros to notice how half the guests (usually, in my experience, the less chip-inclined female half) are ready to gnaw their own arms in hunger by the time the charcoal is finally ignited. Note to grillers: charcoal takes a long time to heat up and burn down. Longer than you think! Really! Even you with the flick-the-button propane grills, some preheating is necessary, especially if you're doing ribs or chicken.

Rather than start surreptitiously searching my hosts' drawers for matches, though, I've learned a trick that never fails: Bring gazpacho.

Gazpacho, my friends, is the 4th of July barbecue's best friend. Face it: no one really wants to eat salad at a barbecue. Undressed, it shrivels; dressed, it turns to sludge after an hour in the sun. All those leafy greens take up valuable paper-plate real estate, space that could be better filled with pita chips and guacamole. But when the good parts--the tomatoes, the cucumbers, the olive oil and vinegar--are diced, pureed, and chilled into an easily drinkable soup, what was once superfluous becomes madly refreshing and much more satisfying than a pile of lettuce. As California native M.F.K. Fisher wrote in How to Cook a Wolf, in 1942,

"...it is the perfect summer soup, tantalizing, fresh, and faintly perverse as are all primitive dishes eaten by too-worldly people.

It is good for lunch, or for supper. It is especially good if you have a barbecue, and want some legitimate and not too alcoholic way to keep your guests busy while you turn the steak: put a big tureen of it on the table, and let them serve themselves into cups, and eat toasted crusts with it if they want. Then when you declare the entree done, whether it be filet or ground-round patties, you will find appetites sharp and wits fairly clear, and a satisfying patina of conversation glimmering in the air."

There are many different gazpachos, all born from the baking summers of Andalusia in central Spain, and since adapted all around the world. Right now, since truly fabulous local tomatoes are still a month away, my current favorite version uses strawberries to boost that perfect balance of acid and sweet.

Many recipes call for canned tomato or V8 juice; I find it too tongue-coatingly thick and metallic for something as pure as this salad soup. Ice water helps the cool vegetables along; you can add more ice cubes after chilling, to keep it cold on the buffet. Serve in a punch bowl or pitcher, with glasses or mugs alongside. It also makes a great first course for a sit-down lunch; in that case, add a spoonful of finely diced strawberries, tomatoes, and cucumbers to each bowl, and drizzle with basil oil just before serving. Or, for true 4th of July kitsch, you can top each bowl with stripes of creme fraiche and "stars" of fresh blueberries. Hurrah for the red, white, and blue!

Strawberry Gazpacho
Sweet summer strawberries give a certain je ne sais quoi to this excellent warm-weather refresher, especially in the early summer before local tomatoes are ripe.
Makes 1 ½ quarts (6 cups)

Ingredients
2 pints strawberries, preferably organic, hulled
1 red pepper, seeds removed, chopped
1 large tomato, cored
½ sweet onion, such as Maui, Vidalia, or Walla Walla, peeled and chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled
1 large cucumber, peeled and chopped
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil, or to taste
1/4 tsp sea salt, or to taste
freshly ground pepper
1 cup ice water, or as needed

Basil Oil
1/2 cup basil leaves, loosely packed
1/3 cup olive oil

Garnish
1 pint strawberries, hulled and finely diced
1 cucumber, peeled, seeds scooped out, finely diced
generous handful of small pear or cherry tomatoes, seeds removed, finely diced

Preparation
1. Combine strawberries, vegetables, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper, and ½ cup water. Stir well and refrigerate for one to three hours to let flavors blend.

2. Pour mixture into a blender and puree until smooth. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt, vinegar, or oil as needed. Add more water if gazpacho seems too thick. If desired, strain through a chinois or medium strainer for a smoother texture. Refrigerate for several hours, until thoroughly chilled.

3. While soup is chilling, make basil oil. To preserve the leaves’ bright green color, blanch basil in boiling water for 10 seconds. Drain and pat dry. Puree with oil until smooth. Cover tightly and refrigerate until needed.

4. Just before serving, dice garnish ingredients and toss together. Pour soup into small bowls or shot glasses. Top each serving with a spoonful of garnish and a few drops of basil oil.

Open your fridge, now. Scan the shelves and tell me: how many plastic yogurt containers are in there? If your house is anything like mine, plastic yogurt tubs--the 32-ouncers from Nancy's, Wallaby, or Straus--are your default tupperware, to the point where it can take a few minutes of fridge-shelf lid-popping to find the one that's actually still filled with yogurt and not last week's curried coconut-lentil soup or last night's leftover pad thai.

Which makes me a little guilty about the amount of plastic I'm bringing home from Good Life Grocery week after week in support of my fermented-dairy habit. On one hand: calcium, probiotics and lactobacillus, good. On the other: a bobbing stream full of plastic tubs, flowing right to my doorstep. Yes, they're recyclable, but still, the process of plastic from creation to breakdown is not a pretty one.

Happily, though, there's an easy way to both save money and keep away from the tubs. You make your own.

For a long time, I put this off, until I finally found a yogurt maker for $5 at a garage sale. A yogurt maker does nothing but provide a mild, steady heat source that keeps your milk at optimal fermentation temperature, about 10 or 15 degrees above your own 98.6 F. Whatever the brand, it's just a heating pad for your jars, and while it's convenient, it can also seem like just one gadget too many.

After my own machine disappeared during my last move from Brooklyn back to San Francisco, I couldn't quite see adding yet another appliance to an already space-challenged kitchen. And why, when yogurt has been made for ages using absolutely no technology at all?

We give very little thought to the luxury (and relatively new phenomenon) of chilling milk straight from the cow, keeping it cold and fresh for a week or more at a time. Yogurt, like other ferments, makes this protein- and calcium-rich food last a lot longer, while at the same time making it easier to digest. Nomadic Mongolians fermented mare's milk in skin bags kept warm next to the saddle. All over the Mediterranean and the Middle East, yogurt was made from goat, sheep and (to a lesser extent) cow's milk. It could be made thin and tangy for use in marinades and drinks, richer and thicker for dips and sauces. In India, cooling yogurt-based lassi drinks could be salty or sweet, perfumed with aromatic spices or sweetened with pureed ripe mango.

It takes nearly no effort to make yogurt. What you need is milk (cow, goat, even sheep, depending on your preference), a little already prepared yogurt to act as a culture, a clean jar, and time.

A candy-type thermometer is useful, although not absolutely crucial. A quart of milk is a good amount to start with, along with 2 tablespoons of plain, unflavored yogurt made with live cultures (and preferably without pectin, gelatin, or other thickeners). Heat your milk up to 160 degrees, or until you can hold your (clean) fingertip in for about 10 seconds. Pour the milk into your clean jar and place the jar in a bowl of ice water to cool it down. Stir the milk frequently. When it's between 110-115F degrees, or when it feels just mildly warm to the touch, pour a little out into a small bowl. Whisk in the yogurt, then pour the mixture back into the jar. Whisk to mix, then cover the jar.

You're almost done. The last step is keeping the mixture at a more-or-less steady 110F to 115F for six to eight hours. Putting the jar into a large covered pot of 110-degree water that comes half-way up will work, as long as you periodically re-warm the water. Many people swaddle their jar in a thick towel and put it on top of the fridge or at the back of the stove, anywhere that stays reasonably toasty. That same half-filled pot of warm water could work very nicely stashed in a picnic cooler or styrofoam tub.

As the milk sits, the colonies of beneficial bacteria from the initial dose of yogurt will be digesting the lactose in the milk like crazy, kicking off a mad binge of reproduction. After some 6 to 8 hours, the once-fluid milk will be transformed into solid yogurt and a quantity of loose whey. Without stirring, put the jar into the fridge for several hours, so it can cool down and continue to set. Once the yogurt is thoroughly cold, pour off any excess whey, then stir thoroughly.

Try as you might, homemade yogurt is, in my experience, pretty runny. (So is commercial yogurt, if made from only milk, without added gelatin or pectin.) The more consistent your heat source, the better your chance for a more solid yogurt. Full-fat milk makes dreamy-rich yogurt, although I'm perfectly content using 2% milk for everyday use.

Once your yogurt is made, you can dress it up in many ways. Spooning it into a colander lined with cheesecloth, a clean tea towel, or several layers of paper towels, then letting it drain overnight in the refrigerator, will give you a fresh yogurt cheese similar to extra-thick Greek yogurt. You can sprinkle your yogurt cheese with herbs and sea salt, or drizzle it with honey and top it with toasted walnuts and oozing-ripe apricots.

Or you make your yogurt even runnier by turning it into a soup, like this chilled cucumber soup, drinkable even on the hottest East Bay days. It's also a way to redeem even the biggest, wateriest, seed-strewn cucumbers out of your garden, since the gelatinous seeds are scooped out and tossed, leaving only the cool flesh to be buzzed into a refreshingly frothy, herb-strewn puree.

Cool as a Cucumber Soup
The herbs in here are up to you. I think dill goes exceptionally well with cucumber, but basil, mint, or cilantro would all work very nicely, too.

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
3 cups plain yogurt
1/2 cup thick, drained yogurt, Greek style yogurt, or sour cream
1 garlic clove, peeled and chopped
2 tablespoons chopped chives or scallions
3 large cucumbers, peeled in alternating strips, halved, seeds scooped out
a generous handful of fresh dill, basil, cilantro or mint
a few sprigs flat-leaf parsley, optional
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Combine yogurt, garlic, 2 cucumbers, and herbs in a blender. Puree until fairly smooth. You may have to do this in batches to avoid overloading your blender.

2. Pour soup mixture into a large pitcher and set aside. Grate or finely dice remaining cucumber and stir in for texture. Taste and add salt and pepper as needed.

3. Chill well. Serve very cold, topped with a little extra herbs and chives.

I have a few extended family members who hate soup. For some reason, this really bugs me. As a lover of all chowders, consommés, gumbos and bisques, I take it almost as a personal affront that they have no interest in homemade chicken or mushroom soup, clam chowder, or minestrone (particularly when I make them). Thankfully, my husband and children share my passion for all things steamy, creamy and brothy.

Knowing this, it won't surprise you to hear that we eat a lot of soup at my house. My daughters are actually little soup fanatics. It is a cure-all for any ill. Have the sniffles? Ask mom to make homemade chicken soup. Your friend was mean to you at recess? Take comfort in a cup of miso soup. It's rainy and cold outside? Then obviously we need cream of tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes, from head colds to just an all-around bad day, soup makes their lives a little brighter.

My daughters' hands-down favorite is a tie between homemade chicken soup and miso soup from our local sushi spot. But boiling a chicken takes time and the Japanese restaurant is a hassle to walk or drive to on a busy night. So, because necessity is the mother of invention, I've created a few easy-to-prepare soups that can be made in less than ten minutes from foods most of us have on hand in our freezers and pantries. As any working mom can tell you, quick and easy is essential for a week-night dinner, and these recipes are both; yet I also love how these homey dishes are made almost entirely of vegetables, making them just as nutritious for my family as they are tasty.

Now, I realize some of you may scoff at the idea of using frozen vegetables or canned tomatoes, but when you're trying to cook seasonally, they're really your only option in the winter if you want to use something that isn't either a root vegetable or a leafy green. Plus many frozen vegetables are picked at the height of the season, so, if you don't overcook them, their natural summer sweetness really comes through.

After quickly sautéing the vegetables, you just add in some chicken or vegetable stock, milk with butter, and a few seasonings; ten minutes later, you will see that these hearty and warm dishes are worthy of your full attention.

If you have your own quick pantry or freezer soup recipe, I'd love to hear about it.

Homemade Cream of Tomato Soup

My husband's favorite childhood rainy-day lunch was Campbell's Tomato Soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Too bad the poor guy grew up to have a wife who sneers at canned soups and refuses to buy them. But after years of eating this quick pantry soup, he's never looked back. Just like their dad, our kids are now eating cream of tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches on rainy days, although theirs lacks corn syrup and preservatives.

Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 15 oz can of diced tomatoes, crushed tomatoes, or whole plum tomatoes that have been blended.
1/2 medium onion diced
1 medium carrot diced
1 cup béchamel sauce (double recipe below)
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp flour
1 cup chicken or vegetable broth
1 Tbsp dried dill, oregano or basil
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Heat oil in a medium-sized pot.
2. Add onions and carrots and cook for 3-5 minutes or until onions start to become translucent.
3. Stir in tomatoes and then add in the broth and simmer for 5 minutes.
4. In a separate pot, make the béchamel sauce.
5. If tomatoes are chunky, puree using either a hand or stand blender.
6. Whisk the béchamel into the tomato mixture then stir in the dried herbs (dill, basil or oregano) and simmer for about three minutes.
7. Add salt and pepper to taste. Top with a dollop of sour cream or crème fraiche for added creaminess and some fresh basil or dill to garnish. Serve with grilled cheese sandwiches.

Broken Freezer Frozen Pea Soup

This soup was invented after my freezer broke. While cleaning out the defrosting mess, I realized that I have a problem buying frozen peas. Now I am not being hyperbolic here. I had 7 bags of frozen peas in my freezer. Why did I have 7 bags of peas? I am asking myself that same question. In any case, this soup is fast, easy, and even uses leftover mashed potatoes or rice, if you have those on hand. If not, you can plop in some béchamel for substance and creaminess.
Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 bag frozen peas
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp butter
1/2 onion or 1/4 cup shallots finely chopped
2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1/2 cup leftover mashed potatoes, the inside of a baked potato, or cooked rice. If you don’t have any of these around, just use 1/2 cup béchamel sauce (see recipe below).
1/4 cup milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Heat oil and butter in a medium-sized pot.
2. Add onions and cook until translucent.
3. Add peas and cook for a few minutes.
4. Add broth and simmer for five minutes.
5. Add potatoes, rice or béchamel sauce and then add the remaining milk. If using béchamel sauce, wait until step 6 sto see if the soup needs to be thinned a bit before adding the extra 1/4 cup milk. Mix thoroughly.
6. Puree ingredients thoroughly using either a hand or stand blender. If using béchamel sauce, add the remaining milk now only if soup needs to be thinned a bit.
7. Add salt and pepper to taste and serve with a splash of olive oil or a small dollop of crème fraiche. Serve with bread.

Creamy Corn Chowder with Pancetta and Peppers

I love the natural sweet flavor of corn in this easy-to-prepare soup. The pancetta adds a great salty flavor, but if you prefer to keep this dish vegetarian, just omit it. Bursting with flavor, this is the perfect soup for a weekend lunch or weeknight dinner. Serve with quesadillas or a big salad.

Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 16 oz bag frozen corn kernels
1/4 cup chopped peppers (pasilla are nice, but you can also use red, yellow or green bell peppers or even a can of chopped roasted peppers)
1/4 cup chopped pancetta or bacon (optional)
1/4 cup chopped shallots, onions, or green onions
2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 tsp olive oil
1 Tbsp butter
1/2 cup whole or low-fat milk

Preparation:

1. Heat oil in a medium-sized pot and sauté chopped pancetta on medium-high heat for 2 minutes.
2. Add onions and peppers and cook for 3-5 minutes or until vegetables soften
3. Add corn and cook on medium-high for a few minutes.
4. Add in broth and cook at a low boil for 3-5 minutes.
5. Puree using a hand or stand blender.
6. Add the milk and and simmer for a few minutes.
7. Salt and pepper to taste. If desired, top with a chopped cilantro or another herb to garnish.

Béchamel Sauce
Makes: 1/2 cup
1/2 cup whole or low-fat milk
2 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp flour
dash of salt, pepper and nutmeg

Preparation:
1. melt butter and then mix in the flour to create a roux.
2. Add in the milk and simmer until it thickens.
3. Season with salt, pepper and a dash of nutmeg to taste.

Curried Broccoli and Greens Soup. Photo by David Rodwin

Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

You wouldn't necessarily want to follow Alice in Wonderland's diet (at least outside the environs of Burning Man) but Lewis Carroll had it right with this paean to the steamiest, best food of winter. And it's a good reminder that broccoli and greens, cold weather's staples, can come to the table in another guise besides the endlessly repeated cycle of steamed, steamed, stir-fried, and steamed.

Carroll doesn't mention curry powder, but he should. Yes, that old pantry staple, yellow and dependable in its plastic jar or shiny little tin. You might even be embarrassed by its ongoing presence in your spice drawer, proof that you haven't graduated to six different regional garam masalas, aromatic evidence that you're not spending these long dark nights grinding your own fenugreek.

But really, a good spice mix is always a handy thing. Even when you know your idlis from your dosas, there's something comforting about the familiarity of that standard supermarket blend. For me, the smell instantly transports me back to the gourmet takeout shops of the '80s, where I earned my college-summer paychecks by mixing up big plastic tubs of curried chicken salad, dicing an endless parade of chicken breasts, glopping in the mayonnaise and sour cream, scooping in mango chutney and raisins and then adding curry powder until the whole bowlful turned a vivid Sahara yellow.

Or you might remember M.F.K. Fisher's famous story of "Hindoo Eggs," wherein the young Mary Frances, desperate for a little exoticism to liven up her grandmother's Spartan table, tripled the amount of curry powder used to flavor a white sauce poured over hard-boiled eggs. For a palate reared on bland boiled everything, the result was inedibly fiery; still, out of stubbornness and loyalty, M.F.K. and her sister ate until blisters rose up on their lips and tongues. They finished the meal by sitting on the edge of the bathtub with their mouths full of mineral oil.

But my curry-powder favorite is adapted from yet another foolproof and delicious recipe in Laurie Colwin's second volume of food essays, More Home Cooking. Her version is so easy as to be almost laughable, and yet you could eat it any day of the week and be very happy. Potatoes, broccoli, and a garlic clove are simmered in chicken stock until tender. Curry powder and a little orange rind are added, and the whole thing is tipped into the blender and buzzed to a warming, healthy puree.

All very well, but it hardly takes any more effort to give it a little finesse. Sauteing the curry power with onion gives depth and mellowness while softening the raw bite of the spices. A squeeze of orange juice brings freshness (and vitamins). And cooking the potato almost all the way through, then adding your broccoli (and a handful of whatever greens are languishing in the fridge or winter garden) keeps your bowlful more verdant green than sludgy khaki.

Curried Broccoli and Greens Soup
This soup also keeps and freezes well.

Serves 4

Ingredients

1 large or 2 fist-sized potatoes, scrubbed and cut into chunks
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 onion, peeled and sliced thinly
1 tbsp butter, olive, or vegetable oil
2 tsp curry powder, or to taste
2 cloves garlic, chopped
grated rind and juice of 1 orange
1 head broccoli, stalks peeled and chopped, flowerets broken into pieces
1 handful watercress or arugula
2 cups water, or as needed
Yogurt or sour cream for garnish

Preparation
1. In a medium saucepan, cover potato chunks with chicken broth and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook over low heat until potato is just tender.

2. While potato is cooking, saute sliced onion in butter or oil over medium heat until translucent but not browned. Add curry powder, garlic and orange rind and cook, stirring, for another minute.

3. When potato is tender, add curried onion mixture, broccoli, greens, water, and salt and pepper to taste. Let simmer until broccoli is very tender. Remove from heat and let cool slightly. Add orange juice.

4. Using a blender or immersion blender, puree mixture until smooth, adding water as necessary if soup seems too thick. Reheat to serve. Top each bowlful with a spoonful of yogurt, if desired.

Maybe it's because I was recently delving into my high school mix tapes or maybe it's because I have a knack of remembering my food "firsts," but when I sat down to my two-day-old minestrone, I remembered my first minestrone and I remembered Suzanne.

We're still very close friends (and she's not dead or anything), so it's not like I needed any reason to remember Suzanne -- especially since she figures heavily in my mix tape memories -- but minestrone and Suzanne are inextricably linked for me.

I don't remember the year, but I remember the month. It was Valentine's Day and a bunch of us were protesting not being asked to a Valentine's Dance by certain boys by having a huge girls gathering. We were all at Suzanne's house where her parents humored us by giving us the dining room and letting us eat off the fancy china. Suzanne, the cook of our group, made a huge, steaming pot of minestrone on that frigid Minnesotan night. I'm sure we had bread and salad, too, but I don't remember that. I just remember the minestrone.

Given that minestrone is chock-a-block with vegetables, I was already not a fan. Without tasting it, I was against it. But I didn't tell Suzanne that. Suzanne had made me a special birthday pizza topped only with onions and cheese because she knew how much I loved onions. I wasn't going to tell her I was sitting out her protest minestrone because I hated zucchini. And carrots. And cooked tomatoes...and pretty much everything else in it.

Anyway, everyone else was pro-minestrone, and I didn't want to broadcast my pickiness, because in high school? You don't go against the grain. I sat down and quietly unfolded my napkin. Then I quietly took a small taste from my spoon. After that, I quietly finished my portion and quietly ladled out more. Quite soon, I was ordering minestrone at lunch whenever Bruegger's Bagels had it.

But it was never as good as Suzanne's.

This month, I had a reason to make minestrone for the first time. A few days before my mother-in-law flew out for Thanksgiving, I recited the contents of our Mariquita Mystery Box to her over the phone. As soon as she heard we were getting butternut squash, baby leeks, and chard, she told me I should think about making Alice Waters' fall minestrone from The Art of Simple Food. She even brought me a Ziplock bag of the necessary sage, rosemary, and bay leaf fresh from her Virginia garden.

So, of course, I made the minestrone. I soaked and cooked the Rancho Gordo borlotti beans, I peeled and diced the butternut squash, and I washed and ribboned the chard. And then I left it alone for 24 hours because soup, pasta sauce, and onion dip are always better after 24 hours.

I suggest you serve with crusty bread, a cold night, and warm memories.

Adapted from Alice Waters' Fall Minestrone

Serves: 8

1 cup cooked borlotti beans, with liquid reserved (AW says you can also use cranberry beans)
1/4 cup olive oil
1 large onion, diced (I used red onion because it's sweeter when cooked and adds a new dimension)
2 carrots, diced
2 celery stalks, diced
4 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1/2 teaspoon chopped rosemary
1 teaspoon chopped sage
1 bay leaf
2 teaspoon salt
1 bunch chard, stemmed, washed, and chopped (AW says kale, but I agree with my mother-in-law's chard choice)
1 14-ounce can tomatoes, drained and chopped
3 cups water
1 small leek, diced
1/2 butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch cubes (about 2 cups)
1 cup bean cooking liquid

1. Heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat. Sauté the onion, carrots, and celery for about 15 minutes. Add garlic, herbs, and salt and cook for another 5 minutes.

2. Add the chard and tomatoes and cook another 5 minutes. Add the water and leek and bring to a boil. After the boil, bring the heat back to medium, and cook for 15 minutes.

3. Add the butternut squash and continue cooking until it is tender, about 10 minutes. Next, add the drained borlotti beans along with 1 cup of the bean cooking liquid.

4. Over low heat, gently warm the beans and their liquid through, about 5 minutes.

5. Taste and adjust seasonings to your preference. (I like to add a few fresh grinds of black pepper.) Remove bay leaf before dishing out.

6. Garnish each bowl with 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil and 1 tablespoon (or more) of freshly-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

Brian Murphy, a sous chef at Oliveto, mixes up lentils for one of his signature soups

A recent posting on the Food Blog Alliance site urged writers not to use overused adjectives such as "nice," "wonderful" or "delicious" when writing about food.

Since I tend to dislike edicts even more than clichés, let me say this about the lentil soup recipe I am about to offer:

It is wonderful. It would be nice for you to try it. And if you did, you'd find this soup to be delicious.

Okay, maybe I could work harder in describing why a mere lentil soup deserves the forbidden D-word.

But believe me, it does. There is something about slow cooking of dried porcini mushrooms, wine and lentils that leads to magic. If you properly execute this dish, throwing in generous amounts of finely diced vegetables and finely chopped herbs, you will have a soup that is as complex and brooding as Caravaggio painting.

Some might say that lentil soup is an odd thing to prepare in the summer. That would be true in Sacramento (where I live). But in the Bay Area, where it is often cold and foggy, a lentil soup is just the thing to be enjoying on a back patio. I learned this basic recipe at Oliveto, one of many perks of working as a galley slave (intern) there.

Credit for this particular combination goes to Brian Murphy, an Oliveto sous chef who consistently turns out the kitchen's finest soups. Brian's nickname is "Chateau," as in "Chateau Brian."

So here's to you, Chateau. Salut!

Lentil soup with porcini and herbs. Why wait until fall to enjoy?

Chateau's lentil soup

Serves: 8-10

Ingredients:

1 1/4 pounds green lentils
2 red onions, medium dice
1 large carrot, medium dice
2 stocks celery, medium dice
1 head of garlic, clove peeled and finely sliced
1/2 bunch rosemary, finely chopped
1/2 bunch sage, finely chopped
1/2 tablespoon finely ground coriander seed
1/2 cup dried porcini mushrooms, soaked in dry red wine
Up to one gallon of water
1/3 cup tomato paste
1/3 cup olive oil
Sea salt to taste

Equipment needed:
Heavy stew pot or soup pot; hand blender or regular blender; sharp knives.

Preparation:

1. Dice onions, celery and carrot, and finely slice garlic cloves. Video: Basic instructions on peeling and dicing onion.

2. Soak dried porcini in wine, and have a glass for yourself. Grind the coriander. Open the can of the finest tomato paste you can afford.

3. Chop the heck out of the herbs. Get them really fine, but watch your fingers. Don't even think about using a food processor for this.

4. When onions, carrots, celery, garlic and herbs are ready, heat up your soup pot and pour in enough oil to cover the bottom of the pot. Throw in your veggies and herbs. Salt rigorously and cook under medium heat until vegetables are soft.

5. As veggies are cooking, pull dried porcini out of your wine and finely chop. Filter sediments out of wine and reserve.

6. When veggies are soft, add tomato paste to the pot, stir it around for a minute and then add reserved wine. Stir, and add half of your ground coriander.

7. Add lentils to pot and fill with the gallon of water. Add any wine from the bottle you haven't already enjoyed (about 1/2 bottle). Raise heat until lentils boil and then reduce heat to a generous simmer. Cook until lentils are tender and done.

8. Blend soup rigorously with a hand blender. If too thin, cook to desired thickness. If too thick, add water, judiciously. Add salt to taste. Add more coriander, if desired. When perfect, ladle into soup bowls and serve with a drizzle of olive oil.

(Note: Aftering ladling soup into soup bowls, Oliveto drizzles each with "Olio santa" -- olive oil cooked briefly with rosemary and red pepper flakes. Give it a try.)

Poor corn. It's been pimped out to animal feed and fructose companies, making it top the most-wanted list of dietary no-nos. But real corn -- and by "real" I mean those delightful yellow and white cobs that come in green husks and not the mass-produced grain in monoculture fields -- is a summer treat.

Corn is at its best roasted on the grill where that direct intense heat makes the kernels sweeter. After eating our fill of grilled corn a few weeks ago, however, I wanted to try something a little different. Soup. Yes, I know. Soup is not a summer standard. But we live in the Bay Area, where hot days are followed by cool, foggy ones, so soup is an every-season dish as far as I'm concerned.

Corn chowder is a favorite of mine. In the past, I have always just cooked the corn on the stove to make soup, but this time I wondered how everything would turn out if I roasted it first. I had to give it a try. Now keep in mind that this is a simple recipe. Unlike other corn chowders, which are usually made in the winter, this soup doesn't include root vegetables, like potatoes, or spices. Corn is now in season so I really wanted it to be the star and adding other ingredients meant it would have to share the stage. I therefore settled on just corn, bacon and onion along with stock and milk. The result was lovely: just-picked corn sweetness caramelized on the grill with a salty bacon accent. You could easily serve the soup just like this, but because I am growing parsley in my backyard, I decided to top everything off with an herb pistou to round out the flavors.

What, you may ask, is a pistou? It's just a fancy name for herbs blended with olive oil and seasonings. I often make a parsley pistou for my lentil soup, so whipped one up for the chowder. The result was more than I had hoped for. Like lime with jalapeno, or coffee with chocolate, the pistou heightened the corn's natural essence and elevated the flavor to a new level.

Roasted cream of corn chowder with parsley pistou has now become one of my favorite summer dishes, with or without a fog bank.

Roasted Cream of Corn Chowder with Parsley Pistou

Makes: 4 servings

Ingredients:
2 strips bacon
1/2 onion diced
3 large cobs of corn
1/2 cup half and half or whole milk
2 cups chicken stock
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
1. Heat grill to high.
2. Place husked corn on direct heat and turn down the grill. If using a charcoal grill, place on indirect heat.
3. Grill for about 5 minutes a side or until the kernels start to brown. You may even hear a popping sound.
4. When corn is thoroughly cooked, remove it from the grill. Set aside to cool.
5. Chop bacon into small pieces and cook in a medium pan. Add the diced onions when the bacon is 2/3 cooked through. Continue cooking until bacon is crispy and onions cooked through.
6. Trim kernels from the cobs. I place my knife at a slight angle, which makes it easier to remove the kernels.
7. Place bacon and onions in a blender along with the corn, chicken stock and milk. Puree until the mixture reaches the consistency you desire. I like it mostly smooth, but with some small chunks. You can also use a hand blender.
8. Place the soup into a medium-sized pot and heat through.
9. Ladle into bowls and top with parsley pistou.

Parsley Pistou

Makes: 1 cup

Ingredients:
1/2 cup parsley
1/2 cup olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
1. Place parsley and olive oil in a blender and puree until the herb is fully integrated into the oil.
2. Add salt and pepper to taste.