It was fogged-in cold. The kind where the sky and the street blur together and the mailbox disappears by noon. The radiator was doing its best, but my ankles still felt like old meat in a fridge drawer. I wasn’t going to cook. Truly. I was going to eat crackers and read that novel about the woman who bakes bread to forget her husband. But the can of beans was already on the counter. No idea how it got there. Maybe Mae was looking for something. Maybe I just needed something hot that would fog up the windows from the inside.
Her Highness calls it Minestrone Soup—olive oil, aromatics, a soft riot of vegetables. I saw the page once, creased between a lemon tart and something involving pheasant. Left it open on the counter by accident. The next thing I knew, the knife was in my hand, and the onion was halfway diced. It happens like that sometimes.
What The Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is orderly—chopped red onion, trimmed green beans, a single garlic clove minced if you feel like it. The rosemary is restrained, not bossy. The tomatoes are peeled and obedient. Everything softens in olive oil, then bathes in water until the kitchen smells like someone reliable made dinner. It finishes with basil and grated Parmesan, because of course it does. She always leaves you with something green and something sharp. It’s a quiet flex. A reminder.
I admire it. Really. But…
What I Did Differently
I forgot the Parmesan. Twice.
The first time I just… didn’t take it out of the fridge. The second time, I grated it, then Mae called asking how to restart the Wi-Fi router, and I never found the bowl again. I think the dog got it. I didn’t ask.
I also didn’t peel the tomatoes. I know Her Highness would shudder. But I like them ragged, skins and all, like they’ve been through something. And I used regular cabbage, not Savoy, because that’s what was wilting in the drawer. Honestly, it needed to be used or buried.
Oh—and I added more garlic. Because my hands were already sticky from crushing it. Because I could smell my father again. lemon and garlic. god, that kitchen.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The oil went in, not measured. Just enough to coat the bottom and forget it for a second. I added the usual suspects—onion, carrot, celery—and the pan hissed like it knew I wasn’t in the mood to babysit. I stirred, distracted. Mae texted “what’s the bean soup you make?” while I was reaching for rosemary, and I almost grabbed thyme instead. Wouldn’t have been the worst mistake I’ve made.
When the red-pepper flakes hit the pan, I sneezed. Twice. Then laughed. No one was around to hear it but the dog and the dented Dutch oven—the one from the night I left him. It still sings when I stir too hard.
I chopped tomatoes straight from the can. No draining, no ceremony. They bled into the pot, and I didn’t stop them. The cabbage came next, loud against the knife, and the potato looked older than it should’ve been, but softened like a secret.
I let it simmer longer than Martha said. Because it was quiet. Because the soup didn’t need me for a while. Because I didn’t want to think about the Parmesan.
A Few Things I Learned
You can skip the cheese and still feel full.
Cabbage gets sweet if you leave it alone long enough.
The steam fogged the kitchen window just right—I drew a heart without thinking. Don’t know who it was for.
What I Did With the Extras
I ate it standing at the stove. Burnt my tongue. Didn’t care. Later that night, I reheated the rest and Mae said it “tastes like something old but nice.” I think she meant it kindly.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But not with company. It’s too personal. Too warm in the wrong places.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The radiator still rattled. But it felt less lonely once the pot was half empty.
If you want something with more cream and fewer vegetables, I did Her Highness’s cheddar leek mess last winter. different vibe. still warm.
FAQs
No. I forgot it and didn’t miss it until I remembered. if you’ve got it, great. if not, don’t stress.
totally. kale works. spinach wilts fast but it’ll do. I used green cabbage because it was there and already halfway to compost.
yep. thicker. deeper. like it slept well. I ate mine cold once and didn’t regret it.
nah. rough cuts are fine. they all end up soft anyway. just aim for “biteable” and move on.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Spinach Artichoke Dip
- Martha Stewart Bearnaise Sauce
- Martha Stewart Corn Pudding With Chives
- Martha Stewart Guacamole
Martha Stewart Minestrone Soup
Description
Soft, sweet, and held together just enough to count as breakfast.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the base: heated a nervous swirl of olive oil in the big pot—dented one, obviously. added onion, carrots, celery, flakes, rosemary. salt. stirred like it owed me something. everything softened, slowly. the onion tried to brown but got distracted. just like me.
- Add the tomatoes: dumped them in straight from the can. didn’t drain. didn’t peel. let them melt into the rest. stirred once. let it go quiet. mae texted and i forgot it for a minute. came back to a warm mess that smelled like sundays.
- Build the soup: added the potato, the cabbage (chopped like a threat), and the beans. poured in water until it felt like enough. brought it to a boil, then dropped in the green beans like they were late to the party. turned the heat down. let it all breathe.
- Let it simmer: didn’t time it. just watched. stirred when i remembered. it got thicker, richer. the potato softened like forgiveness. the cabbage sweetened. i tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. once. twice. the dent echoed back.
- Finish and serve: tossed in the garlic near the end. basil too, if i had it—which i didn’t. ladled it into the biggest bowl i could find. forgot the parmesan. again. ate it leaning against the sink, still holding the spoon. didn’t talk. didn’t need to.