Tortilla Soup

If you’ve been to Mexico, you know what I’m talking about.  Not the restaurant chain version of tortilla soup, but the authentic version found in family owned restaurants.  I remember the first time I had it.  I was by myself at the time (can’t remember why), but I was in this little hole-in-the-wall place in Puerto Vallarta in 96.  I know I had to be unsettled, because that is usually when I order soup on a menu.

Out comes this steaming bowl of a reddish broth, with crispy tortilla strips, big chunks of avocado, chicken, cilantro, and a Mexican crema on top, with some lime wedges on the side.  The smell was heavenly, but the taste was on par with the best chicken soup in the world…just kicked up a notch. Creamy and crunchy vied for dominance, but I remember closing my eyes and knowing…I will recreate this soup, come hell or high water.

Cut to Seventeen years later (jaysus I’m old!), and I’m still tweaking and perfecting my version, but it comes pretty damned close to what I ate (minus the crema…I always have difficulty finding it).   I like to make it after Thanksgiving because if I do the broth from scratch, I use the turkey bones and leftovers to make it.  It’s been awhile since I’ve made it, and I figured it was time…and if I’m not mistaken…the first time in my new home.  It’s a bit labor intensive, but the results can’t be argued.  Tuesday, I began the process, and today, I brought the results in to work for my co-workers.  Don’t worry; when you’re using Turkey bones, you tend to have a ton of broth.  I still have a huge container in my fridge at home.

No, this blog isn’t about eating Tortilla soup, although it may read like it from the aforementioned paragraphs, it’s about the feeling it gives me when I make and eat it. This morning, it was about 25 degrees outside so it’s the perfect time for a warm slightly spicy soup.  Being that I started the soup on Tuesday…and that was the evening my sister pulled her shenanigans, there had to be some divine intervention going on to ensure I had busy time in the kitchen. When my hands are working and I’m creating, I’m not as hell bent on vengeance and walking around the house ranting. 

When I’m at my lowest, I find that random acts of kindness always make me feel better.  Making soup and bringing it in to my co-workers makes me feel like I’m a part of something bigger than myself.  This life isn’t all about me, and contributing to things beyond me keeps me in check.

There’s something soothing about soup. It soothes my stomach, my soul and calms my mind because there’s something about the methodical lifting of the spoon, and slurping, feeling the warmth slide down my throat and permeates my core.  It doesn’t weigh me down like other things will, and I sleep better after having a bowl of soup for dinner.