When I was young, my Granny made soup.

But there was more to it than that. It was legendary.

Granny’s bottomless soup pot fed all comers

through every weekend as far back

as I can remember. She made it for

Granda’s lunch, but always made sure

to make plenty. She knew what she was doing.

 

On Saturday afternoons, anyone who came

through the door was asked if they wanted some.

Some weren’t given a choice. When I got there

with my bit of the family, I was ushered to table,

a large bowl set in front of me, and a spoon thrust

into my hand. Sometimes she added

a couple of pieces of boiled potato. Just because.

 

She made it in a standard pressure cooker.

There must have been at least two dozen

large soup dishes served on a Saturday,

and there was always plenty left

for me and my brother on Sunday after church.

At the time, it never struck me as odd.

It was just the way it was.

 

I once asked for her recipe. My Mum

could never duplicate it no matter how she tried.

She told us she’d used the same ingredients

as Granny, but just didn’t have her knack.

Granny used onions, barley, carrots and peas,

parsley, celery, potato and goodness knows what.

And goodness it was. No one could resist it.

 

But Granny had no recipe. It was all within her,

part of her DNA. Oh, she started off

with boiling a shin bone for stock, but then

she would just add things till it looked right.

She’d stir and taste, nod or shake her head.

And she’d add to it all day. Serving it up,

and topping it up, and it always tasted the same.

 

I was never able to make soup that tasted

half as good, despite years of trying.

Nor my aunts and cousins,

but it’s still the gold standard of soups.

I make my own now, write down recipes

just in case. All good, wholesome soups

in their own way. But they’re not Granny’s.