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Joan W. Churchill; Exeter, NH Our $750 Second Place Winner |
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| Preparation: In a 2 quart, heavy-bottomed saucepan, melt the butter with the oil over medium heat. Add the Vidalias® and pears, stirring to soften, 2-3 minutes. Sprinkle over the curry powder and salt. Stir for another minute until the curry is fragrant. Stir in the chicken broth and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly before putting in a processor or blender to puree until smooth. (Alternately, you can use a stick blender and skip the cooling step.) Return puree to the pan and add the cream and honey; heat through. Whisk in the yogurt and half the chives. Serve immediately, sprinkled with the remaining chives. Or better yet, chill the soup thoroughly and serve in chilled bowls, sprinkling with the chives. |
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| My Sweet Memory: Soup Slurping, Joy, and Learning Soup before the main course on Sundays after church was always a given in my family. My mother was the family disciplinarian and etiquette instructor. Her three kids, (of which I was the youngest and susceptible to those older siblings) were taught to sip soup charmingly, gracefully, pushing the liquid away from themselves in the bowl, never toward. And NEVER, never slurping. But, children being just that, tend to stretch any envelope available, even after-church soup. Mom would finish her soup and disappear into the kitchen to ready the roast. My dad would try to sneak a peak at the newspaper as we three finished our soup. Well, one can never underestimate the tyranny of children, even in as innocuous a situation as soup slurping. The door swung closed and we were off to the races. My brother always led, initially glancing furtively towards my father, who he knew wasn’t about to become less than the benignly doting gather that he was. Air was sucked in along with a mere pittance of the soup; this wasn’t about eating. It was about noise, pure and simple. The decibel level increased; my father would glance over just to make sure we weren’t messing up the tablecloth. He sometimes remembered what it had been like being a kid. Then, the door would start to swing open, generally showing a hip from my mother since her hands were otherwise engaged. As quickly as the onslaught had begun, it ended. Those three angels acted as good as their Sunday-best looked. My dad could see the fleeting image of tiny smirks on the faces of his kids, but never let on to mom. Once grown and on my own, I started to travel widely and well once the requisite education and settling into the primary profession of choice had been achieved. And started to appreciate food and wine, and as well as tasting what I was eating. I also liked to see how other cultures approached food, where they were finding fun and enjoyment, and how they approached that food. In much of Asia, the food had sweet and sour as well as degrees of heat and cold both within the food itself from peppers and cayennes or via the actual numbers on the thermometer. I stated to understand how food was eaten differently from how “we” do it. There’s something about the freedom of childhood I have always tried to hold onto. I attempted to replicate that idea—not the impropriety of the action in our society, but the joy inherent in the action. I started to realize that other societies hold onto joyful ways of eating, as well. Many people eat with their hands, with sticks, with knives, and with each other. I have created a recipe here for the beautiful Vidalia® onion—a soup recipe—touched with spices, yogurt, cream, and honey. It can be served in a mug or a glass, eliminating the spoon completely. It can be hot or cold. But hopefully, it will be enjoyed for its taste and ease of eating. Ad if you slurp or get a white moustache from it, well, so be it. |
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