The radiator clicked three times and gave up. again.
I had wool socks on, but one was inside out and the other was damp. not wet. just… damp.
I wasn’t going to cook. not really. just boil something. something slow and beige and forgettable.
Her Highness’s chicken soup came to mind, not because I craved it—but because it asked nothing of me. Chicken. water. carrots. time.
The kind of soup you make when you can’t answer texts and the dog’s asleep on your coat.
What Martha’s Chicken Soup Looked Like
I’ve seen it folded in an old Living issue, the spine cracked where the broth hits a simmer.
She does it proper. A whole chicken. Skims the foam, discards the back (why? I like it gnarly), slices onions Like they owe her money.
No butter. No oil. Just clean ingredients, boiled slow, as if the purity of the process could cleanse a house.
It’s what Nan would’ve called “a soup for the sick” — not the sniffly kind. the lonely kind.
I Didn’t Have a Plan, Just Cold Feet
I didn’t peel the carrots.
I used the sad garlic—the one with green sprouting like antennae.
There was no celery left, so I used the pale middle bits from an old fennel bulb.
and the water wasn’t eight cups. it was however much fit the pot before it overflowed when i dropped the damn chicken in.
Her Highness wouldn’t be pleased.
But I was too tired to care.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I let the water boil before I remembered to salt it.
Mae wasn’t home—texted “sleeping over at Lina’s”—so it was just me and the dented Dutch oven. the one I dropped the night I left him.
It still sings a little when the spoon hits the side.
I added onions like Martha said, thin slices curling into the steam like ribbon. then the garlic.
I meant to add the breast back earlier, but forgot. it got dry. not inedible. just… resentful.
I pulled the chicken out with tongs and used the same towel I once set on fire to hold it down.
the carrots went in too late. but somehow came out soft anyway.
It smelled faintly like the lemon cake Mae ruined when she was nine. sweet somehow.
I skimmed the fat but left some behind. I like the glisten. feels honest.
What I Learned From This Beige Little Miracle
The breast gets dry if you walk away.
But the broth forgives it.
You don’t need celery if you have memory.
And soup that simmers for hours tastes better when you forget you’re waiting.
What I Did With the Rest
Left the pot on the stove.
Ate a bowl at the counter with a spoon that bent slightly in the heat.
Poured the rest into two jars, labeled “maybe” and “again.”
One’s still in the fridge. probably too late now.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah.
Especially if the house stays this quiet.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The radiator didn’t come back on.
But the soup was warm.
And that was enough.
If you need something thicker, I made a cheddar soup last January that held more grief. but less garlic.
FAQs
yeah, but it changes. the broth gets a little cloudier, a little quieter. I still do it. just defrost gently, not in a rush.
god, yes. let it sleep in the fridge and you’ll taste more soul in it. I ate mine cold once, straight from the jar, and didn’t regret a thing.
not if you don’t want to. I’ve made this with thighs, drumsticks, even a rotisserie bird once when I was too tired to try. it still works. soup forgives.
skip it. honestly. the onions and garlic carry enough memory. I used a leek once and no one noticed.
depends on how sad you are. I let mine simmer for hours while I did nothing. but you can do the whole thing in under two if you’re in a rush. I won’t tell Her Highness.
Check out More Recipes
- Martha Stewart Cranberry Sauce
- Martha Stewart French Onion Soup
- Martha Stewart Banana Pudding
- Martha Stewart Chicken Pot Pie
Martha Stewart Chicken Soup
Description
Gentle, a little forgetful, and better the second day. like most things lately.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Start the Base: Put the whole chicken into your biggest pot. I used the blue Dutch oven—the one with the dent from that night. Cover it with cold water, a heavy pinch of salt, and bring it to a rolling boil. Skim the foam, or don’t. Depends how you feel. I did. Kind of.
- Add the Aromatics: Thin-slice the onions like Martha says—three of them. Toss them in. Then the garlic (don’t worry if it’s sprouting) and fennel or celery, whatever looks less sad. The smell should feel like old Sundays.
- Let It Simmer: Lower the heat and let it go. Partially covered. For about 30 minutes. Stir once if you remember. I tapped the spoon against the pot like a metronome. No reason.
- Pull the Breast Early: Lift it out gently and set it aside—this part dries if you leave it too long. I forgot once. Don’t be like me. Or do. It still tasted fine in a sandwich.
- Carrots Go In: Slice them thick enough to feel substantial. Toss them in. Another 40 minutes or so. You’ll know when they’re soft enough to bite without thinking.
- Shred the Meat: Take the rest of the chicken out, let it cool just enough so you don’t burn your fingers—then tear it apart. Keep the good pieces. The wings I gave to the dog. The back went into the compost with zero ceremony.
- Finish the Soup: Return the meat to the pot (not all of it—you’ll thank me later). Taste. Skim fat if you want clarity. Don’t if you want comfort. Salt again, but only until it tastes like something you’d make twice.