thoughts of my grandmother's tomato soup transport me to her hot kitchen with its lumpy floorboards and small oak cabinets with black iron drawer pulls--the comforting smell of a chicken stock bubbling and memories of my grandfather sitting at their hardwood table slicing eggy noodles from sheets of freshly rolled dough. after adding the tomato paste, the vapors would float from her copper pot, tangy and sweet, promising the firm bite of the noodles and freshly ground black pepper. And soon enough I would hear my name bellowed from the kitchen, and I would race to my grandmother's side, bowl in hand. A plop of velvety sour cream, a ladle full of noodles from my grandfather, and a pinch of garden dill from his finely weathered hand--and I would make my way to the table hungry and thankful for every slurp.
a perfect saturday dinner to remember our visit with them last summer: tomato soup, egg noodles, and hefeweizen
and some banana bread for dessert, because we're just that good.
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