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A Pot of Soup December 5, 2012
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A Pot of Soup
December 5, 2012



Greetings Friends of the Farm,

On a rainy, rainy, cold Sunday, what should a farmer do? Make a pot of soup!

Saturday, we sampled two delicious tomato soups, one donated by East Side Cafe to Edible Austin's Eat Local Bike Tour of urban farms, and another, later that night, at ASTI Trattoria. So of course, even though I have a few bags of heirloom Cherokee Purple tomatoes in the freezer, it wouldn't do to have yet another tomato soup. I didn't ask Larry if he agreed with my assessment, because he most certainly would have specified TOMATO soup. Yet again, as he is the biggest fan of tomatoes of any man I know.

In general, however, just about all men love tomatoes. In fact, if they are growing a garden in the backyard, it will likely be planted to tomatoes. And since Larry participates passionately in growing thousands of tomato plants -- he will always request tomato soup.

So, I didn't tell him. He's over at the New/Old house anyway, putting in two shower pans in the bathrooms, and although it's a short walk between farm houses, it's pouring down rain. Earlier I took him an umbrella, thoughtful wife that I am. But I hope he won't come home until the soup is done.

The soup is butternut squash. Made from "uglies" that we grew, on a, ahem, tomato fence in the back field, along with beautiful ones who rest/cure in the Pioneer (guest) Room. The uglies I judged too awful to put on the farm stand table, lest your discerning eyes signal quiet disapproval. As did mine. But such rejects are the ingredients of a farmer's meals, and usually, especially with popular crops, we are delighted to be able to withhold such pitiful specimens for our own nourishment. The beauty often lies within, does it not?

The farm is so quiet during a rain, unless the rain is one of those pummeling kinds that typically occurs the minute we praise the soft, soaking type. Earlier in the week, I expressed approval to assistant Marissa, as we stood under the barn watching it rain, This is the kind of rain a farmer wants....slow and soaking, about an inch, every Saturday night. She nodded agreement at this sage assessment, and at that nodding, the wind came raging and the rain slanted at 45 degrees and whipped the crops almost prone. "This," I remarked, "is the kind of rain a farmer detests." Further I cautioned her that the rain changed because I praised it. (You can learn a lot from rain. The conceit of praise, for instance, will surely be dealt a correction. It's always best to pair praise with a prayer that it will continue to be justified, at least through harvest.)


Today's rain is the slow kind. Even so, the hens hate rain. They huddle on their nocturnal perches or under little rain roofs we've constructed for them. They don't eat as much and as a result, there are fewer eggs. It would be better if the rain would rain all over the farm, but not on the Hen House. They can't even take a dirt bath! Their feet are muddy to the ankle, the feed gets wet, their nest straw dampens too. It's all just a very disagreeable situation.

Their only hope is that I will slush out in the pudding that is now their Hen House floor and toss them the seeds and scraps from my soup making. And of course I will, in a little while. I promise.

Cutting the squash open is the biggest thrill of the soup making adventure. My man is doing the shower pans, so I get out the heavy cleaver (every woman should have one of these, especially if there's no man around) and cut each end off of each squash. Then I carefully come down hard with the cleaver on one side of the squash. If the squash doesn't suddenly fly across the room and knock over a lamp (or your man), it is cleaved. Sometimes the force is not enough to fully halve the squash and the cleaver is lodged in it. Then I pick up the entire combination and slam it down on the counter.

It is better to have a man do this, so that the guilt will be his if the counter falls apart too. My wooden counter merely groans a bit, and the halves of the squash successfully part.

Then with a spoon, I dig out the seeds and their surrounding fibers. Butternut squash seeds aren't very large and there is a lot of fiber, so I reserve them for the hens. (Other hard squash seeds are larger and I enjoy sauteing them in a little skillet with butter and salt until they are brown and crispy. They usually get eaten before the meal is ready.)

Now, skin is good for you, but since this is gnarly squash, I do peel the ruts and ridges off with my simple vegetable peeler. These too go into the chicken bucket. (The perfect skin parts stay on for the soup.)

Then, with the cleaver, I cut all the squash halves into thin slices -- the thinner they are the faster they cook -- but you can cut them however you like (larger for roasting.) In my soup pot they are all going to be blended smooth anyway, and my man is likely getting hungry, so I must step on the soup throttle and get the soup cooked.

To the squash I add broth -- in this case, chicken broth -- and salt, herbs, cumin, and black pepper. You can add anything you like, sweet or savory, cinnamon, nutmeg, etc. That's the wonderful thing about soups....they are flexible about seasonings. People could learn a thing or two from soups I think.

I like dairy in squash soups, so I blend in a few glugs of Wateroak's low-temperature pasteurized milk. Once the soup is blended with the marvelous immersion blender, I let it percolate for a while over lowered heat to thicken a bit.

Now it's time to deliver the trimmings to the Hen House, and even though I dread it, I don my leaking muck boots (gotta order a new pair; this RAIN is getting ridiculous; it might be planning to continue for as long as the drought did,) and bucket in one hand and umbrella in the other, it's out to make the wet hens happy. But first I veer to the broccoli patch and stuff a bunch of reject leaves into the bucket. All of this goes to eager hens, who seem to prefer the broccoli leaves to the squash trimming. But alas they stepped on the desirable seeds which are now hidden in the slush.

After an hour of prep and cooking, the soup is done. When I serve it, I will have a saucer of Pure Luck's feta cheese ready to sprinkle on top. But for now, I must bake some cornbread. That's what it will take to make Larry forget that the soup is NOT tomato.

Carol Ann

PS: Larry enjoyed the soup and cornbread very much, and did not even mention the word, "tomato."
Update: I and my assistants enjoyed the leftovers the next day! Perfect to have Butternut soup and cornbread after row covering all the delicate crops for the coming freezes!
PSS: For market we will have a lot of Dan's Buttercup and Butternut squashes, plus his delectable Sweet Potatoes, AND, all them make great soups.

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