I’m not just a foul weather soup fiend. To me, soup is for life. Soup is life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve eaten some terrible soups. Spare me those boring admissions of defeat where every spoonful is as dreary and disappointing as the last. We’re better than that.
In winter, I love those dense soups filled with meat and root vegetables, the sort of bowlfuls that could keep a medieval village going through a siege – just the thing when it’s snowing outside and you’re about to do a double shift on the trebuchet.
Even when the sun comes out, my love for soup is strong. At this time of year, I love soups full of sprightly vegetables, newly sprung from the warming earth. Bring me a basket of baby leeks, peas, asparagus, sorrel and spinach; give me new potatoes, radishes, lettuce and bunches of soft herbs; and while there will definitely be salads, there will also, inevitably, be soups. There’s something so cheering about these bowls of green, before we even move onto the chilled soups of summer – hello gazpacho, my old friend.