Soup power

The clever addition of an unexpected ingredient gives Sam Woulidge a pot of proteinrich tomato soup that she can finally obsess over for the first time in her life

Ihad surgery earlier in the year. Not a big deal. But I was put on a liquid diet for two weeks afterwards. That was a big deal.

The day I was discharged from hospital, having had my fill of clear soups and jelly and custard, I gingerly made my way to the fridge, fully expecting that Jacques would have stocked it according to the WhatsApp directives (including screenshots from Woolies) I had sent him from my hospital bed. He had remembered the cranberry juice and plain yoghurt but instead of my favourite country vegetable soup, he had bought tomato soup.

In the parlance of the day, I found this to be enormously triggering.“Why tomato soup?” I wailed. “I hate tomato soup. I wouldn’t eat it if I were starving!” I exclaimed dramatically. “You know

I loathe gazpacho. And I cannot stand Bloody Marys. Tomato soup is your thing, not mine,” I whimpered while swallowing another pain pill. Looking murderously at both the packet of tomato soup and my husband, I left the kitchen.

The next day the soup was gone. Jacques had eaten it, happily, of course. And I had calmed down by then and eaten my soup of choice. But I felt guilty about my tantrum. Of course I eat tomato soup if I absolutely have to. As in, if I’ve been invited to a dinner party and don’t want to appear rude. But I have never willingly bought it, or heaven forbid, made it. But things can change. Often things must change.

For example, post-surgery I now have something called protein goals. (Everybody, I subsequently learnt, is also trying desperately to “hit” their protein goals.) I re-examine the contents of Seb’s lunchboxes, adding chicken and more cheese. I interfere with Jacques’ morning smoothie ritual, insisting that he adds protein powder. I have, apparently, become incredibly annoying. And all the while, the memory of my tomato soup homecoming fills me with guilt.

One night, still on my liquid-only diet, trying to make amends, I made a Caprese salad for Jacques with exotic tomatoes and a really good burrata.

He ate it while I sipped on some soup. I felt envious. Of the burrata and the basil. He commented that he liked the sunripened heirloom tomatoes that I had used, knowing that if I were able to eat it, I would have swapped them for hard salad tomatoes. Because that’s how I like my tomatoes: hard, slightly green and cold from the fridge. I know this is appalling to some, but I care not.

I began to wonder where my horror of tomato soup had come from, because I really do love hot tomatoey things: tamatiesmoor, tamatiebredie, shakshuka. And in that moment I realised that this might actually be a Sam problem and not a tomato soup problem. So the next night I made a tomato soup and added smooth cottage cheese for creaminess and, yes, protein. The internet is full of people adding cottage cheese to everything. A month ago I would have been horrified; now it appeals to me. It feels virtuous. I presented the soup proudly. It was incredible. It had Caprese flavours from the basil, notes of rich caramelised onion, and an intense tomato base with enough pepper to give it a slight bite. I was obsessed.

Seb initially regarded it with suspicion, having grown up with me expressing my own dislike. So I made him a cheese toastie to go with it. He told me it was delicious and asked for a second bowl. Jacques was surprised by my change of heart but ate it enthusiastically. They told me they loved my soup, and finished the pot. “You have hit your protein goals, boys,” I said. But they cared nothing about that. They only cared that I had bothered to cook again, that tomato soup was back on the menu, and I’d said that I was sorry.

@samwoulidge, confessionsofahungrywoman.com

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“Caprese flavours from the basil, notes of rich caramelised onion and an intense tomato base – it was incredible”