How to MAke the Best Lentil Soup
For dinner when it's dark and cold, I make lentil soup. It's different every time, my mother taught me not to use recipes. In her house she cooks with what feels right, so I do the same. It’s everything left in the fridge soup. When it's too stormy to walk through trash and puddles and wind to the grocery store, and New York tastes off on my palate, that’s when I know it's time for lentils.
To make lentil soup, you need lentils, of course. Black or green, or even orange if you’re feeling adventurous. My mom would soak them overnight, I don’t have that kind of patience. You also need headphones, playing Frank Sinatra or Spanish guitar or something jazzy and smooth, off the beaten track of your regular playlist rotation. You need a glass of something cool. I like red wine, but the soup is still good if your glass is full of water or orange juice, or even a white if you must. I’m no sommelier, but this drink is mostly just to have in your hand while cooking, so I don’t think it matters too much so long as it's there.
On a cold evening it's easy to understand the importance of layers, and lentil soup should be truly swaddled. Warm the garlic and onions with spices, really whichever ones you want. You can create your own core so long as it's hot. Hot potatoes, toast your lentils, wrap it all up in coats of broth to simmer slowly. When you’re cooking with feeling, my mother taught me that it doesn’t matter what your layers are so long as they fit and keep you warm.
To make lentil soup you need a little bit of nostalgia. That’s an addition easily paired with spinach, you can toss those in together and give it a good stir. Everything needs a little bit of bitterness, but don’t worry it’ll wilt down to nothing pretty soon. Then comes the waiting. When I make lentil soup, the water to lentil ratio is an eyeball game. I usually get it wrong, so don’t worry if you do too. Lentil soup reminds me that it’s ok to tweak things halfway through, nobody will notice let alone care too much. How could they? There’s enough to go around, especially with that extra bit of water you added to make things simmer right.
To finish lentil soup, you need some greek yogurt, some hot sauce, and some fuzzy slippers. You need a place to sit, somewhere warm, something to read or something to watch or someone to talk to, or just a window to look out of, but only if it's raining. Lentil soup should be served hot, preferably in a rough ceramic bowl. When I eat my lentil soup, the steam tickles the hairs in my nose and curls around my apartment. I hold each lentil like a bead between my back teeth, tasting spice and rich nuttiness and my mothers kitchen until they burst open and the heat fades down my throat, and it’s just the present that lingers, a neutral aftertaste on a rainy afternoon.
