One of Mother Nature’s great jokes on cooks is that her summer magic nudges gardens and farmers’ fields into full maturity, bringing fresh produce abundantly to the kitchen, just as she perversely cranks up the thermostat and makes cooking just about the last thing on anyone’s mind—especially when the cooking involves a big, steaming cauldron of soup.
Yet, one of summer’s ultimate paradoxes is the fact that the great vegetable soups of the world, from Italy’s many versions of minestrone, to soupe au pistou in the South of France, to America’s hearty vegetable beef and our own local okra soup, were all created (and remain at their best) just as the year’s hot season reaches its zenith.
Ah, but any sensible cook knows that a big, hot cauldron of vegetable soup today means cold vegetable soup tomorrow, when the flavors have mellowed, and soothing and cooling, its ingredients actually tease beleaguered appetites in a way that they could never have done on their own and had they never been made hot.
My grandmother’s vegetable soup, rich with lots of fresh tomatoes and seasoned generously with black pepper, was actually better cold, and when we were chopping those vegetables and stirring them into that big, steaming pot in her sweltering kitchen, the knowledge that we had cold soup to look forward to made the sweat well worth our while.
Her soup, standing up to the best minestrone, was and still is my standard.
Usually, I start with about ¼ pound of lean dry-salt-cured pork side meat, sliced in three or four pieces, in a wide, deep enameled iron pot over medium heat, turning it once or twice, until the fat is rendered and it’s nicely browned.
If that salt pork bothers you, you can always omit it and add a few spoonfuls of oil to the pot for browning the beef, then add a well-scraped three-inch square piece of Parmigiano cheese rind to the broth later. But do know that what the pork is adding here is flavor and not all that much fat, and if it’s a snob thing that’s putting you off, you need to know that it isn’t just a Southern thing. Salt pork is the seasoning of choice for any vegetable soup in the South of France and in many parts of Italy.
Anyway, when the pork comes out of the pot, in goes about three pounds of sliced beef shank to be nicely browned on all sides. Then the pork is returned to the pot with about four quarts of water. When it begins to simmer, the heat is adjusted until the top of the liquid just shimmers, and I leave it to cook for at least an hour, two if I’m not in any hurry. Sometimes I even do this first stage a day ahead.
Meanwhile, I scald, peel, and seed about a dozen medium-sized tomatoes, roughly chop them, and add them with their juices to the pot. Canned tomatoes just won’t do. Though they’re fine for other things, the whole point of this seasonal soup is the fresh, sweet flavor and fragrance of fresh tomatoes.
While the soup comes back to its simmer, I trim and slice small pods of okra that are no bigger than my thumb, about a dozen or so—just enough to make the okra present but not dominant.
While that’s coming back up to a simmer, I trim, peel and chop a large yellow onion and add it, then wash, string, and dice two ribs of celery and add that. While it’s coming back to a simmer, I’ll trim, peel, dice, and add three carrots.
When I have them, I also scrub, dice, and add a couple of small, fresh turnips.
When the soup is back up to a simmer, I’ll add two kinds of butterbeans, about a cup each of the regular green and speckled variety (the kind that turn a rich, coppery brown when cooked), and then a cup or so of peeled and diced waxy boiling potatoes.
Next, a good fist-full of pole beans are trimmed, strung, and sliced, enough for a generous cup, and when the soup is simmering again, they’re added to it. While that comes back up to heat, I’ll chip up a cup of green cabbage by hand, add it to the soup, and let it simmer a few minutes before tasting and seasoning the soup with a small pinch of sugar (because my grandmother did it), salt, and several liberal grindings of black pepper.
After that, I hold back adding more vegetables until the ones in the pot are almost tender, about half an hour or so. Then I scrub a couple of medium yellow squash under cold running water, trim them, and cut them into small dice. When the other vegetables are almost done, in goes the squash, followed by a cup each of green peas and white corn freshly cut from the cob—about two large ears.
By then, the soup is close to being ready. I’ll let it simmer at least half an hour or so longer, until everything is tender and mellow tasting. If the soup starts to get too thick, I’ll add a little simmering water (not hot water from the tap). Before it comes off the heat, I taste and adjust the seasonings one last time and let it simmer a few minutes longer.
Regardless of whether I’m having it hot or cold, it really is better the next day, so I usually make it the day before I want it. Take it off the heat and let it cool (if the weather’s especially hot, cool it by stirring it in a metal bowl set in an ice bath), then refrigerate until it’s cold before covering it. Let it chill, covered, overnight. It’s always thicker the next day and will need to be thinned with a little cool water.
Serving it cold is not literal: it should never be straight-from-the fridge-icy. After thinning it, let it sit at room temperature for about half an hour—just until it loses the deepest chill, then taste and adjust the seasonings.
Regardless of the style, when I’m serving it cold, I always add a generous spoonful of pesto, made without pine nuts, to each serving. And yes, my grandmother, who was always game for something new, would have approved.
Besides, I’ve never been able to get it exactly like hers anyway.