I Tried Martha Stewart’s Tomato Soup — and Stirred More Than Just Onions
The radiator wasn’t cutting it.
That weird cold, where it feels like it’s coming from the inside of the house, not the outside.
I wrapped myself in that tea towel with the Maine-shaped burn mark—again—and thought I’d make toast. Burn it, probably.
But there was that half-used can of tomatoes in the fridge door, bent slightly. Like me.
Martha’s tomato soup crossed my mind. No fanfare. Just… there. Like an old sweater I didn’t remember folding.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness keeps it honest with this one. Butter. Onions. Maybe garlic if you’re feeling reckless.
Two cans of whole tomatoes, juices and all. Chicken stock, or water if your cupboards are echoes. And cream, if you’re not already undone.
Martha’s version is what I’d call structurally dependable. The kind of soup that doesn’t raise its voice. You simmer. You blend. You finish gently.
I can see her now, white shirt, spoon tapping the edge of the pot like punctuation. Calm. Composed. Warm, but distant.
I Didn’t Have Chicken Stock. I Had Nerve.
I used water.
Didn’t even consider the broth cubes—I don’t trust them anymore. (Too salty, too yellow, too much like pretending you tried.)
I added a pinch of sugar. Not Martha’s idea. Mine. Blame the acid. Or my mood.
And I didn’t use heavy cream. Not because I didn’t have it—because I didn’t want to. Something about the way cream coats a spoon made me uneasy that day. Like pretending things are smoother than they are.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Butter in the green Pyrex, the one from college. It still smells like spaghetti if you warm it too fast.
Onions went in. Garlic too, because it was there, and because my dad used to crush it with his fist and wipe his hands with lemon. I always smell him when it sizzles. Every time. Ten years gone.
The tomatoes—one can newer, one old enough to whisper doubt—went in with their strange liquid. That burbling, acidic song.
I stirred too much. Didn’t need to. Just needed the motion.
Salt. A little pepper.
And then I stood there and watched it boil.
I thought about Nan’s pie crust. She hated tomatoes. Called them show-offs.
Blended it in batches. Left one chunkier than the rest. I like surprise.
Poured it back in the pot, touched the dent in the Dutch oven without thinking. Stirred in silence. Didn’t taste it. Just ladled.
What I Learned Without Meaning To
If you skip the cream, you taste more.
The garlic hit first. Then the onion. Then that vague, round sweetness that made me think of a kitchen I left behind. Not the house. The feeling.
Also—
It’s louder when it simmers. That might just be me. But it mattered.
What I Did With the Leftovers
Cold, straight from the jar, next morning.
Mae took a spoonful and said, “Not bad.”
Then she walked away humming something I used to sing when she was little.
I didn’t cry. Just scraped the sides.
Would I Make It Again?
When the radiator fails, yes.
When I need to stir something that isn’t a thought, definitely.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It was quiet when I finished.
Not warm, exactly.
But less cold.
If you’re after something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder. almost burnt it. still worth it.
FAQs
Not really, unless you’re my aunt, who thinks pepper is “edgy.” if you want heat, add crushed red pepper. or cayenne. or just anger. whatever works.
You don’t have to. i didn’t blend all of mine. left a few bites chunky because i wanted to chew my feelings a little. just depends on your mood and blender situation.
Yes. i did. wasn’t feeling soft that day. it’s brighter without it—sharper. but if you want something rounder, gentler, add the cream. no judgment either way.
Whole peeled, canned—the kind with personality. don’t overthink it. i’ve used the dented can from the back of the pantry and survived.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Tomato Soup
Description
Thick, tomato-sweet, and honest. I needed something red and loud that day.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Sauté the base: melted the butter in the green pyrex. it sizzled too fast—probably had water in it from the wash. threw in the chopped onion and garlic. stirred like it owed me something. it softened. smelled like my dad’s hands after sunday roast.
- Add the tomatoes and liquid: poured in both cans, juice and all. one plopped, one sighed. added the water (stock if you’re feeling structured, i wasn’t). a pinch of sugar, too. didn’t measure. just knew. salt. pepper. tasted once. winced. fixed nothing.
- Simmer the soup: let it come to a boil, then turned it down. left it to blip and murmur while i wiped the counter and tried not to think about anything. stirred it once just to hear the sound. the pot hissed back.
- Blend it (in parts): ladled hot soup into the blender, forgot the towel on the lid the first time. it spat. cursed. tried again. smoother this time. didn’t blend it all the way. left a few chunks in for texture or defiance. maybe both.
- Warm and finish: back in the pot. low heat. stirred like i was waiting for someone to knock on the door. thought about cream. didn’t add it. tasted again. it was sharper than i expected. but it worked.
- Serve and sit down: poured it into chipped bowls. cracked pepper on top. mae walked by, stole a spoonful, said nothing. i sat. ate. didn’t check my phone. didn’t think ahead. just the soup. and the quiet.