Eggandlemon Soup

It’s a Sunday afternoon. My head is pounding in a beat that echoes the music in last night’s bar. I raise up a little off my pillow and feel a dull nausea sitting awkwardly alongside my hunger. I know I need food but everything I consider – fry up, pancakes, porridge, yoghurt, cereal – makes my tummy lurch. I scroll through the roller deck of recipes in my head, flipping maniacally past anything greasy or stodgy or remotely resembling junk food. And then it hits me. I want soup. Greek-style avgolemono (eggandlemon) soup, to be precise. It is clean, comforting and nourishing: it is perfect. The only problem is, I don’t know how to make it.

I reach for the phone and call my dad.

“Yia sou baba” then without pause for the answer “how do I make avgolemono soup?” I try my best to sound alive and hide the frog that has taken up residence in my throat.

“Hello, yes so first you need to get some oil, just normal vegetable oil, heat it in your big pot, then you put spring onion, then you add your chicken...chicken thighs are best, on the bone, then you don’t need stock cubes...”

He continues to reel off the recipe (with a distinct lack of timings or quantities) as I’ve heard him do a million times before – only this time I’m listening and making notes.

An hour later and I’m standing in the kitchen with a large pot bubbling away. So far it’s a near-tasteless dishwater of chicken, carrots, spring onions, celery, rice and potatoes. I stare apprehensively at the last two ingredients left to add – the all-important egg and lemon.

I take a deep breath as I recall seeing my dad teaching my mom the technique; how to gently warm the jug of whisked eggandlemon mixture with small ladles of hot broth from the pot. I can see the look of concentration on her face when she later made the soup alone, after they had separated. The dread of seeing lumpy membrane in the soup, the telltale sign of the egg being scrambled – the ultimate failure.

Now it is my turn, my time of reckoning. I begin to ladle in my first dose of hot soup. I picture myself standing in the dock for judgement, and look at the assembled jury. My dad who cooked this for me in our little mountain house in winter. My squishy dough yiayia standing at the wood burner stove, stirring the pot before serving up a vast bowl alongside rough-torn village bread. My great-grandmother in her black dress and headscarf feeding the two little boys at the table, hoping to soothe their fever. Perhaps my great-great-grandmother, watching her husband wolf down the soup after a long day walking the sheep for miles across the fields. And many more distant ancestors, who have cooked this dish for years before I arrived, passing it from generation to generation, clutching to their heritage while living under occupation, through wars and long winters.

So far so good. The jug has slowly filled with a tepid yellow liquid and as I pat my hand against the glass I decide that it’s ready. I remove the soup from the heat and stir, slowly pouring in the yellow mixture. I hold my breath until the last rivulet floods into the ocean of the pot. No lumps of egg in sight! A smile spreads across my cheeks as I reach for a bowl and hurriedly dish up a portion. With a last squeeze of lemon juice, I take a seat at the table and savour my first mouthful.

It is just how I remember. The fresh lemonyness begins to revive me. There is no real egg taste, just a deep warmth that flows towards my soul. I take a spoonful of perfectly softened carrot, yellowed potato and wholesome rice, tasting the beauty of the earth itself. My eyes well up, joy spreads to my limbs. I snuggle into my jumper, feeling myself in a warm, cosy embrace. I’m a child again, looked after, cooked for and cared for. I balance a piece of chicken along my spoon, thinking of my yiayia and her toothless slurp, as I strip the bone of every last stringy bit of flesh and ligament that she’d usually tell me off for not eating “You’ve left half the chicken!”

I get through two gigantic bowls. With a full belly, I call my dad.

“I did it baba, I did it! It tasted just like when you make it!”

“Oh well done! Send me a photo!” he says, full of pride.

And I feel proud too. I will now forever be able to cook myself this soup. I will make it for people that I love when they’re feeling sick or sad. I have something to show for myself, that despite not living in Greece for seventeen years, my guilt about how often I see my family, and my faded language abilities, my tastebuds can still lead me back to the place my heart calls home.

In recent weeks, the world has changed due to the pandemic. The metaphorical barriers between me going to Greece (money, holiday allowance, being busy) have transformed into very real, government-imposed restrictions. I now need a respite from a much more serious hangover. But faced with this longing to hug my family and to see them safe, my cure has been the same; I’ve indulged myself in the familiar tastes of family and home.

I’ve tucked into coils of spinach pastry, wondering what I’m going to do instead of going to work every day. I’ve made sweet muddy coffee in a little copper pot while reading the latest horrifying figures. I’ve sipped cold frappé coffee while sitting in my little London garden, closing my eyes and imagining I can hear the waves. I’ve devoured rivers of tart taramasalata and acres of pitta bread while talking to my grandparents, out of my reach in their little house in Greece.

Scrolling through social media, I see I’m not alone. Everyone is cooking the recipes they miss and that reminds them of home and their loved ones. Images of rustic pasta dishes, hearty curries,bowlfuls of noodles, a cornucopia of breads and a rainbow of cakes and sweet treats. In difficult times, cooking familiar, wholesome and fresh dishes for ourselves is an act of self-care. It’s a way to nourish our bodies and minds with nutrients, as well as memories of love, community and belonging. Because when life has devoured us, stripped the meat off our bones and spat out our pips – we sit, and we eat.

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What are your favourite family recipes? Do you have a go-to comfort food? Let me know in the comments...