The words of Chef John Besh touched memories in my heart when he said, “The tradition of the Sunday feast accomplishes more than just feeding us. It nurtures us.” Growing up in the deep rural farmlands of Ohio, Sundays in the 1970’s were cherished days spent with family. A day I always looked forward to because it meant dinner at Grandpa and Grandma’s house at noon. My favorite family feast days were in the peak of summer when the humidity was heavy, trees rich with bountiful ripening fruit, gardens bursting with its treasures and Grandpa making his homemade chicken soup. The anticipation of this special meal grew as we loaded into the car and counted down each familiar overgrown tree lining the one lane road to my grandparents’ house.
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As a child, large family gatherings were a daily experience for my Grandpa being one of 13 siblings. As his brothers and he married, Sunday gatherings grew extensively. Soup was the common meal served as it could be stretched to feed many mouths. It was only natural for Grandpa when my 15 aunts, uncles and cousins gathered at his home each week for a Sunday dinner of soup. The recipe for my Grandpa’s chicken soup was brought from Hungary by his parents when they immigrated to America. Passed down through a long lineage of farmers, the ingredients are a collection of what was readily available from the farm which consisted of a variety of root vegetables, a butchered chicken, a handful of cloves and peppercorns, and fresh cut wild green herbs. Each Sunday there were soup rituals. Grandpa cooked the soup, Grandma cooked the noodles, the kids folded the napkins, and the women loaded the table with glasses of cool tap water, a fresh soft loaf of bread and a stick of sweating butter. Everyone lined up to fill their favorite soup bowl with their custom concoction from the soups many ingredients. After dinner, the girls washed and dried the dishes while the boys retreated outside for a game of football in the field. Depending on the season, Sunday soup would be completed with a double Popsicle, slice of chilled watermelon or sumptuous homemade apple pie while we sat looking out over the fields to the edge of the woods. …show more content…
As I grew up I longed for the brief summer vacations when we’d return to Grandpa’s house and once again spend time with family and eat his Sunday soup. My grandparents have since passed away, my aunts and uncles dispersed and the old homestead sold. Though each of my three siblings has only memories to hold on to, they try to instill the same sense of family with their own children. The bustling demanding life of living in a big city has not allowed us to keep the tradition of Sunday dinners. However, we each value and tend to a small garden where we can feed our children from the same good earth our grandparents fed us. Occasionally, on a humid summer day in July, I can smell the robust richness of Grandpa’s chicken soup in the air. I am moved to pull out the old stainless steel pot Grandpa gifted me to gather goodness from the grocery store and steep a steaming pot of Grandpa’s chicken soup. Picking up the phone I call my siblings. Soon, my hard work will bring me back to the kitchen and table where I can taste Grandpa’s soup and be completed with family of today and those of
As a child, large family gatherings were a daily experience for my Grandpa being one of 13 siblings. As his brothers and he married, Sunday gatherings grew extensively. Soup was the common meal served as it could be stretched to feed many mouths. It was only natural for Grandpa when my 15 aunts, uncles and cousins gathered at his home each week for a Sunday dinner of soup. The recipe for my Grandpa’s chicken soup was brought from Hungary by his parents when they immigrated to America. Passed down through a long lineage of farmers, the ingredients are a collection of what was readily available from the farm which consisted of a variety of root vegetables, a butchered chicken, a handful of cloves and peppercorns, and fresh cut wild green herbs. Each Sunday there were soup rituals. Grandpa cooked the soup, Grandma cooked the noodles, the kids folded the napkins, and the women loaded the table with glasses of cool tap water, a fresh soft loaf of bread and a stick of sweating butter. Everyone lined up to fill their favorite soup bowl with their custom concoction from the soups many ingredients. After dinner, the girls washed and dried the dishes while the boys retreated outside for a game of football in the field. Depending on the season, Sunday soup would be completed with a double Popsicle, slice of chilled watermelon or sumptuous homemade apple pie while we sat looking out over the fields to the edge of the woods. …show more content…
As I grew up I longed for the brief summer vacations when we’d return to Grandpa’s house and once again spend time with family and eat his Sunday soup. My grandparents have since passed away, my aunts and uncles dispersed and the old homestead sold. Though each of my three siblings has only memories to hold on to, they try to instill the same sense of family with their own children. The bustling demanding life of living in a big city has not allowed us to keep the tradition of Sunday dinners. However, we each value and tend to a small garden where we can feed our children from the same good earth our grandparents fed us. Occasionally, on a humid summer day in July, I can smell the robust richness of Grandpa’s chicken soup in the air. I am moved to pull out the old stainless steel pot Grandpa gifted me to gather goodness from the grocery store and steep a steaming pot of Grandpa’s chicken soup. Picking up the phone I call my siblings. Soon, my hard work will bring me back to the kitchen and table where I can taste Grandpa’s soup and be completed with family of today and those of