Perfection

My mother was a good cook. I don’t use the word excellent because good better describes her cooking. Good implies solidness, a steady state of reliability that brought comfort to the table as much as nutritional substance combined with deliciousness. And she did it on a budget for a family of seven. I am just a cook.

I thought about my Mom this morning as I made turkey soup. My sister hates it. That is why every Thanksgiving I get to drag the turkey carcass home from Worcester. Because I had to work these past three days I didn’t have time to make it. So the boiled bones sat in the garage in same large pot my mother use to use. The joy of living in the North Country is turning the great outdoors into a semi-convenient refrigerator. Or freezer.

When Mom made soup she would bring the pot in from the garage and chunk off the semi-solid turkey fat that formed on the surface. Then regardless of the temperature of the stock she would begin to fish the bones out of the pot and remove the remaining meat. Sometimes the stock was nearly frozen. The job was bone chillin' and finger numbin'. But every piece of whatever that wasn’t a bone got removed and placed back into the pot. That is why my sister hates the soup. My mother, a product of the Great Depression, wasted not a scrap of the turkey.

There are some things that should not be found in soup. Grizzly opaque cartilage is one thing along with other stuff that doesn’t chew like meat. It doesn’t work well on the palate. I personally don’t care for weird feelings in my mouth. It is why I despise nuts in chocolate pudding. Still there is no reason not to enjoy the taste of home made turkey soup.

I am a Boomer, spoiled rotten of my own higher education and presumptions of easy living made possible by my parents' sacrifices. Making food should not be painful or full of toil. Yet I know all good soup doesn’t flow from a can of Campbell’s  After the fat has been skimmed off, I don’t go fishing for bones in a pot of liquid that would frost bite fingers. I put it back on the stove to warm. Why Mom didn't do this is beyond my speculation. 

I pick through the bones to remove identifiable meat tossing aside those things that are suspect - slimy, really dark brown, flimsy, gelatinous. My mother would be appalled at my wastefulness, but I must confess that when I eat my soup I’m not wary about tactile textures on my tongue. Maybe Mom’s soup was better, but I never wonder what I just swallowed when I eat mine. Did I mention that you ate whatever was on your plate or in your bowl… no questions, ifs, ands or buts?

Two things go with turkey soup. Snow storms and hard poppy seed Kaiser rolls with melted butter. Deep snow with tall drifts and real butter, not that Twinkie-style oleo.  There is comfort in watching the steam rise from both broth and roll when the snow is piling up in the driveway. So on this chilly night for dinner it is turkey soup and Kaiser rolls. No, it is not snowing.  Everything doesn't have to be perfect.