The Healing Power of Mom’s Soup Pot by Pennie Hunt

It was a lonely time. I was going through a divorce. I was living alone for the first time in my life. And it was the holidays.

I stayed with my parents for Christmas, which I usually did, but this year was different. The holidays seemed quieter, less festive, and sad. When it was time to open gifts I sat in a circle with my parents, and family members taking turns opening one gift at a time. When it was my turn, I opened one from my mom, a shiny 12-quart soup pot. I remember hearing a family member say under their breath, what is she going to do with that?

For years I had watched my mom make soup. She would begin in the morning happily browning meat and chopping vegetables to fill her pot. She would open her cabinet of mystery spices, adding shakes and pinches from different bottles until she was happy with the taste. The lid went on the pot and within hours the slow simmering smell filled the house. The kitchen window would fog over from the steam and the house felt like a cozy home. The scene was delicious.

The magical blend of spices and smells created many more servings than our family could eat. My mom would happily take some to the neighbors and drive across town with plastic containers of soup for friends. She loved inviting people over for pots of soup, crispy crackers, and warm bread.

I had wanted a soup pot like my mom’s. I wanted to create the same feeling of home for my family. Years went by without a soup pot and now living alone and cooking for one, this seemed like an odd gift.

I opened the pot and heard oohs and aahs as I showed it to everyone in the circle. Tucking it back in the box I silently repeated to myself, what will I do with that?
The soup pot stayed in the box on a shelf in my laundry room. Much like the pot, I sat alone and isolated in my apartment for months. 

Then one day when I was tired of eating ramen noodles and pouring a bowl of Cheerios for one, I looked at the soup pot. I took it down and washed it. It sat on my stove top with a shine that made the darkness of my kitchen seem happier. I looked through my cookbooks for soup recipes, went to the store, and came home with all the ingredients I needed. I began browning meat and chopping vegetables. I added them to the pot with broth and then began adding spices. I remembered some my mom used and added some from the recipes. I stirred and tasted. Stirred and tasted.
 
The lid went on and soon the simmering smell steamed the windows. The sterile emptiness of my little apartment began to feel cozy. It felt like home. When it was done, I filled plastic containers. I took some to neighbors and friends. The delivery included chatting and laughter. When I returned home, I enjoyed my own bowl of delicious contentment. 

Over the years soup has become one of my favorite things to create and serve. I make chili and chowders, vegetable soup, and stews. The process of chopping, tasting, simmering, and sharing is therapeutic for me.

For years I watched my mom make soup. But it wasn’t until I began making it myself that I understood why she gave me the soup pot when she did. She knew that I felt isolated and alone. She also knew that soup had a healing power that went far beyond the idea of chicken soup helping a cold. The healing was in the chopping and the spices. In the simmering and the sharing. She knew that the pot held more than I could eat and that I would invite others to share the soup with me. She knew it would push me not to be alone. During the hardest times my mom knew that more than anything, I needed a feeling of home in my heart. I needed comfort and connection. I needed a soup pot. 
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                                                        Pennie’s Life Lesson:
       Moms teach lessons of comfort, connection, and home in simple ways. 
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​YOUR TURN...        
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