Holiday Lessons From the Pandemic: Port on the Porch; Soup on the Stove
Fall is upon us—October comes, and I have let go of the melancholy that marks the end of summer. Each spring I note the moment when the leaves are softly, greenly fresh, still damp in their emerging—tender and limp as the ears of newborn goats. But then my mind leaps ahead to the moment of their fall dryness, the crisp end of their lives, my knowledge that if this spring green is inherently bright with hope, leaf fall will feel shot through with loss.
And in September, I do feel this sense of loss. But by October, I have warmed to it all—warmed even to the coming chill. Summer is well and truly over, and the coming season holds out its own goodness.
As the holidays stretch before us, many of us are in an unusual state of between-ness. The last couple of years of COVID experience shook up longstanding holiday habits like dice in a cup and tossed them onto the table in new patterns. Our choices narrowed.
The first COVID holiday season, all the cherished, hard-won traditions felt wrenched away. The 38th annual, never-missed-a-year caroling party didn’t happen (and no mulled wine!). The Christmas Eve dinner with friends in Seattle—steady on since the 1980s—was cancelled (and no brandy-soaked English trifle!). The Winter Solstice party dating from the same era was rescheduled for the Summer Solstice (but no collective showing of It’s a Wonderful Life!). If tradition is an anchor, I, like so many others, was unmoored.
By last year, festivities seemed more possible—not at the same scale, something simpler, but still sweet. Thanksgiving saw us balancing champagne glasses under tarps by an open garage door housing a festive table loaded with appetizers—friends gathered around outdoor heaters, before heading to separate homes for smaller, family celebrations. It felt like there was much to be grateful for.
One memory keeps coming to me now. I was delivering some gifts, porch stops only—Delta had taken its toll, and the evolving Omicron was taking center stage. I stopped at the home of some friends, seen rarely in almost two years. They opened the door with big smiles and a tray set with port and small glasses—a small unanticipated gift of a moment. We stood outside in the frosty air of a December night, bundled in our jackets and scarves, and had a toast. It went down warm the way port does. Maybe all this holiday cheer is simpler than I thought?
In the book Alive Until You’re Dead, Susan Moon writes of her decision, at the age of 76, to participate in a three-month “practice period” at the Zen Monastery, Tassajara. Her experience was not a gentle forest retreat; it was a time of cold, of deprivation, of work, of long, meditative sits, beginning each day before 4 am.
She went because the monastic life, its lack of choice within a ritualistic schedule, gave her an unusual freedom: “I wanted to stop worrying about whether what I was doing was the very thing that I most wanted to be doing.”
Sometimes it is endless choice that leaves us dissatisfied. As a friend asked recently, “What if we were to cease improving the moment?”
So, I’m contemplating the coming holiday season from the fall jack o’ lantern and pumpkin pie festivities right through to New Year’s, because once again, more than in recent years, I think many of us will have the odd burden of choice. Set increasingly loose from our pandemic deprivation, it may be tempting to restlessly second guess what we choose, wondering if the moment is as full as it possibly could be. The simple, port-warmed moment on a friend’s porch may not be repeated. But I think I’ll remember that for a few unexpected minutes, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
When I find myself uncentered, stuck in a wintery discontent and reaching irritably for more, making soup centers me. Something about the chopping and sautéing, about one big, simmering pot holding all that I’ve prepared, seems to soften my tendency to flit uneasily around the house. And when I’m done, I have soup—to share with friends and family, or to enjoy on my own for more than one meal.
If, like me, soup might center you during winter’s cold, but you fear you don’t have the time to make it from scratch, here is a favorite simple winter soup recipe. It requires few ingredients, has an easy prep, and takes less than an hour from start to finish. You can make it as rich or as vegetable-simple as you prefer. And it is potato-based, so sure to be comfort food. This recipe is adapted from Splendid Soups by James Peterson.
Potato Leek Soup
Ingredients
3-4 medium potatoes
3 leeks
4 1/2 cups water
Milk, cream and/or butter (optional)
Mixed herbs—dill, chives, parsley—your choice
Shiitakes or other mushrooms (optional)
Croutons (optional)
Directions
Slice the potatoes to about 1/2 inch. You can wash and scrub them and then leave the skins on—it is faster, and I like their taste—but peel if you prefer. Wash the leeks, remove the tougher greens, then finely slice the rest.
Cover leeks and potatoes with the water, or substitute some (or all) of the water with milk—I usually use a cup of milk. Bring to a simmer (not a boil) and cook until a tested potato smashes easily against the side of the pan. It won’t take long, maybe 20 minutes—don’t overcook them.
While they cook, you have the option of sautéing sliced mushrooms in oil or butter. Remember the Julia Child rule—don’t crowd them. I like to get them a little crispy.
When the potatoes are done, take the pan off the heat. For a richer soup, add a tablespoon of butter and/or a little cream (anywhere from a tablespoon to a 1/3 cup).
Season with salt, pepper, and your choice of a pinch or more of your favorite herbs to taste. Or add chopped parsley or chives as a garnish. Garnish as well, if desired, with crispy shiitakes and croutons (the Co-op croutons are great).