I’m cooking late after sunset, in the dark — chopping onions that cast tiny shadows on the cutting board. I’m making soups — cold soups that’ll be ready for the next day.
It’s only in the night kitchen that I can bare to fire up the burners and my thoughts aren’t dull from the swamp-heat of summer. Outside the air hangs heavy like a sticky fever and smells faintly of citron, burnt metal, magnolia and skunk. The dishwasher hums full of the artifacts from the day’s consumption, including the washable parts of a lemonade stand. I find myself sweating. It’s a different kind of sweat in front of the stove’s blue flames than from the glaring heat of the sun.
There’s comfort in this bout of night cooking — getting the work done ahead of time and knowing that these cold soups, inspired from faraway places like North Africa and Turkey will help clear my head and scratchy throat the next day.
The first one’s flavor is intricate and complex — peppery-hot, mixed with sweet smoke and tang. The base is onions, cooked dry and speckled with fragrant cumin, cinnamon, paprika and ginger. Then I add tomatoes, chicken stock and a couple spoonfuls of solid honey to melt in. It’s brought up to a fast boil after adding cilantro and parsley, and then taken off the heat just as quickly to start cooling down. This seems to scald and keep the flavors in, without diluting or boiling them away. The next day when it’s thoroughly chilled, the honey laces the soup with sweetness like the golden thread in an embroidered pillow.
Then I make a Turkish soup called Cacik (JAH-Jik) because I can’t take the stove’s heat anymore and this only requires a food processor. In Turkey they often begin a meal with a broth or a light soup like this to stimulate the appetite. Cacik is pure and bracing and served ice-cold in small bowls — so you can just drink it.
Plain yogurt or kefir (a creamy drink made from fermented cow’s milk) is added to cucumber, garlic and vinegar and then blended together. The billowing white liquid pulsates and spins like a whirling dervish. It’s finished with flecks of green dill and fresh mint. The whole thing is over and done with quickly.
When I make the last soup the moon is full and high but thunder rolls across it anyway. I’m nearing the end of my energy. This soup is a puree of fresh tomatoes and yogurt blended with curry powder, olive oil and lemon juice. At first taste it’s tart but then finishes long with the heat of chilies, cardamom and black pepper. Its color is pleasing — opaque pink, like a moon shell, or a crab’s claw.
I leave some of the dishes for the morning, since it’ll be an easy day — the cooking’s done and the soups are cooling in the fridge. It doesn’t matter whether dinner ends up being only family, or if visitors come by — it’s cold and soothing — a restorative soup tasting, with greens on the side and maybe a filet from a fisherman-friend’s catch. I take a quick shower to rinse off, and then fall asleep to the unwavering sound of the foghorn.
