There’s a thick gray fog pressing against my office window as the dawn creeps across the sky this morning. It’s not as cold as it was last week, but it looks cold—and the damp brings a chill that’s harsher than the dry, clear air of just a few days ago, when the temperatures were at least twenty degrees lower.

This would seem like the perfect weather to be researching and developing recipes for reductions, which is the subject of my class tonight. Rich, silky, and elegant, they turn plain meat and potatoes in haute cuisine, and warm the palate and soul with their deep flavors and intensified aromas.

But fighting off a cold and coping with the unexpected expense of a new computer monitor, my cook’s imagination has gone where it inevitably goes when it needs comfort—to the broth before it undergoes that reducing.

Nothing satisfies me more completely than making a good broth. There’s the heady smell as it simmers gently on the stove, filling the house with the most comforting aroma imaginable, a subtle blending of onion, celery, carrots, and, in my kitchen, a whisper of ginger. There’s the soothing, warming flavor, meaty and deep, but softened by a subtle touch of natural sweetness.

There’s even something comfortable in the fact that there are no shortcuts to good broth: it takes a while and there’s nothing you can do to hurry it. Cans, paste bases, and bouillon cubes just can’t match the subtle depth of a good homemade broth, especially when it will become a clear soup.

Though the broth that goes into tonight’s reduction will be beef, what my scratchy throat and fragile mood needed was chicken soup.

Popularly called Jewish Penicillin, chicken soup crosses all ethnic, social and religious boundaries as the ultimate healing food. It doesn’t much matter what gets added to it: noodles, rice, barley, matzo balls, or hot chili peppers and fish sauce—last night it was just the chicken and vegetables and lots of extra ginger.

There is scientific evidence that the benefit is not just psychological, but when one’s a little under the weather and feeling a bit sorry for oneself, does that really matter?

My Chicken Broth (and Soup)

Makes about 4 quarts

1 whole stewing hen or 5 pounds meaty necks, backs, and feet

5 quarts water

2 large yellow onions, 1 peeled and thinly sliced

2 large carrots, peeled and thinly sliced

2 large ribs celery, including the leafy tops, thinly sliced

1 large leek, split, thoroughly washed, and sliced (including the green top)

3 to 4 large cloves garlic, lightly crushed and peeled but left whole

3-4 quarter-sized slices fresh ginger root

1 large, leafy sprig parsley (at least 3 inches of leafy stalk)

2 large, leafy sprigs fresh thyme (at least 3 inches long), or 1 teaspoon dried thyme tied up in a cheesecloth or stainless steel tea ball

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns

Salt

1. Slowly warm the chicken and water in an 8-to-10-quart stock pot with a small handful of salt over medium low heat until it comes to a simmer. This could take from 30 to 45 minutes.

2. Adjust the heat so that the liquid simmers very slowly, the bubbles not quite breaking the surface of the broth. With the lid askew, let it simmer for an hour, then add the rest of the ingredients. Raise the heat and let it come back to a simmer, then reduce it again and let it simmer gently for a minimum of 2 hours more, 3 or 4 will only improve it. (You can interrupt this simmer at any point after the first 2 hours, cool and refrigerate the broth and finish the simmer later.)

3. Turn off the heat and let the broth settle for 30 minutes. Strain it carefully through a wire mesh strainer and let it cool completely. Cover and refrigerate until the broth is very cold and the fat on the surface is congealed. Lift off and discard the fat. The broth will keep for up to a week in the refrigerator, for up to 6 months if frozen in small portions.

4. If you use a whole bird, you may take it up after it is tender (about 1½-to-2-hours), skin and bone it, and return the bones, skin, and back to the pot. Let it simmer an hour longer.

Last night’s soup was simple after that: to about 2 cups of broth, I added a bit of minced onion, one diced carrot and a diced rib of celery, some of the celery leaves, chopped, because there was no parsley in the house, and several slices of gingerroot. When those were tender, I cut a raw boneless chicken breast into ½-inch dice, and added it to the soup with lots of salt and pepper. Those are my proportions—your palate may dictate more or less onion and carrot, or you may prefer to spice it up, Asian style, with chilies and a splash of fish sauce. You may want noodles or rice, or matzo balls. One of the most satisfying soups I ever had was from a fine Persian cook who thickened it with lots of broken up boxed vermicelli.

All that really matters, in the end, is that it satisfies you.