I know you are absolutely treading on pins and needles, wanting to know how my evening turned out. I’m sure of it.
When I opened the front door after my 75 minute drive home, my nostrils were caressed by the wonderful fragrance of a chile-and-cilantro-flavored chicken stock. There were tortillas warming in the oven (shitty Grocery store tortillas, but I was in no place to complain) and shredded cheese and more chopped cilantro on the cutting board.
I got a glass of wine (defying the migraine gods to hit me twice in three days – dumbass that I am), sat myself down and was served the absolute thing I had been craving for 36 ugly hours. My wonderful husband used both red and green chiles in the broth – thus making a deep, rich broth with just the right amount of heat on the back end; and had made walnut-sized meatballs with enough rice in them to make them light and delicate.
There was just a bit of shredded cheese on top and, coupled with some healthy squirts of lime, the albondigas combined with the toppings made the whole so much more than the sum of its parts.
There aren’t many times that I feel like weeping after (or during) a meal; but this earthy, yet ethereal peasant soup filled all my empty spaces and banished any hint of discomfort from my body. At the risk of sounding like a complete sap – I go to bed tonight on a full and happy tummy – feeling safe, secure and absolutely loved. I’m ready for tomorrow and whatever it may have to offer – tonight, I sleep the sleep of the just and the righteously satisfied.
GodDAMN that’s some good soup!
May 4, 2009 at 11:26 pm
HOw sweet, & it sounded like a very nice soup as well. I’ve often been praised on my soup making skills but it always comes out very Italian, good but Italian. So the description of your southwestern style treat really left me envious. Enjoy & get well soon.
dom
May 5, 2009 at 5:40 am
Homemade soup is absolutely divine – no matter the heritage! There’s something about soup that just makes everything all right again – heals the sick and comforts the lonely. Gosh, it’s even made me somewhat sentimental and poetic today!!
May 5, 2009 at 2:22 am
Lucky you — a husband who can cook. Mine can’t; better yet, he just won’t learn.
May 5, 2009 at 5:38 am
That’s probably because you’ve spoiled him! I think mine learned early on (like at 11 or 12) that girls like boys who cook – and there weren’t many boys who did cook. Sneaky bugger!