I love lentils and have always made soup with them, mostly red lentils. I always give them a bit of a Mediterranean twist, with cumin and cayenne. A few months ago, when I was scrolling recipes (yes, that is a hobby; don’t be judgy), I saw the words ‘Scottish Lentil Soup’ with commentary that made it sound like it was some kind of national classic. So I made it.
It’s very simple: diced onion, lots of diced carrots, red lentils, and stock. That’s it. No cumin, no thyme, nothing. (Obviously, Scottish cooks can add what they want – I’m just saying the recipe I saw was that simple.) So I made it – easy, peasey – and then the strangest thing: as I took a spoonful, the most evocative and elusive memories took me back to my childhood.
My Mum made good homemade soups, but neither my sisters nor I remember red lentil soup especially. I’m a few years older than my sisters, and I have to think my early childhood, even though it was in Ontario, was probably much more ‘Scottish’ than theirs. I was 7 before I ever had peanut butter (at a neighbour’s), and even older when I discovered the wonder of putting butter on the toast when it was warm (also at a neighbour’s – my Mum cooled her toast before buttering it all her life, which is what the Brits do). By the time my sisters came along, it was the late 60’s, and we’d moved around a bit, and canned and processed foods were becoming much more prevalent, and by the 70’s, I would say were living a pretty much Canadian lifestyle. (Except for Santa Claus – all our friends left out milk and cookies, but we left out beer & mince tarts – that’s what Dad told us Santa liked and who were we to argue?)
But back to the soup, which I now make a lot. Even though I have zero recollection of Mum ever making Scottish Lentil Soup, every time – and I do mean every time – I take that first spoonful, I get this hazy memory from my childhood. Lovely
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