Moseying down a country lane in Ireland at this time of year often involves negotiating a path somewhere between the narrow roadway on one side and the inevitable ditch full of stinging nettles on the other. Yesterday afternoon, however, as I was giving the scads and scads of nettles an advisably wide berth, I was stopped in my tracks by a single thought, and the thought was this, that here was something I could eat… Without any further ado, I beetled back to my parent’s house, with a mission in mind which was going to require a pair of thick gloves.
Stinging nettle, handle with care
The little girl sat at the table, her face cupped in her two hands, transfixed by the activities of her grandfather, who was sitting opposite. He was preparing his usual piled-high breakfast concoction, which went something like this:
- The foundation of the structure was usually a pair of shredded wheat biscuits. Fair enough, thinks the little girl, breakfast looks normal so far.
- These were scattered with a coarse brown powder, a mixture of ground-up pumpkin, sesame, linseed and sunflower seeds. What is that stuff, wonders our heroine.
- Added to this was almost always some stewed apple. Not sure I like how this is shaping up, thinks she.
- This was sometimes mixed with spoonfuls of stewed apricots, prunes, or maybe blueberries. Prunes, ewwww. She is starting to feel that there is something very wrong about all of this.
- Slices of banana or pear came next. Not in the same bowl, surely?
- Onto this burgeoning pile went a liberal pour of diet 7-up – a diabetic-friendly replacement for sugar – which would cause the by now mushy-looking contents to froth, fizz and almost escape the confines of the bowl. Euuuuuughhhh! That’s shouldn’t be allowed!
- As the bubbling subsided, the breakfast mish-mash was crowned with a few spoonfuls of natural yoghurt and slurpily devoured. Our heroine is not sure she believes what she has just seen.
At the end of the ritual, the little girl had only one thing to say:
So today KD let me have a taste of what she suspects may have been her best soup ever. She reckoned it had something to do with the carrots involved, which were, it seems, a bunch of organic specimens at the top of their game. I can certainly vouch for the tastiness of the results.
Thing is, soup made mainly from carrots is, not unsurprisingly, going to taste mainly of them there carrots. Got good carrots, chances are you got good carrot soup (or at least you’ve got good carrot soup potential). Needless to remark, the same can be said for many other types of soupy ingredients, and not just carrots, so extrapolate at your leisure.
Mostly just carrots