Roasted Tomato Basil Soup

June 29, 2009

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I woke up yesterday morning with a sharp stick in my throat…at least it felt that way. Every time I swallowed, my glands cried out and begged me to stop the searing pain. Oh how I hoped the feeling would pass, but it persisted—all day long. To add insult to injury, I also had an eyelid that refused to open (and creases from wrinkled sheets embedded into my right cheek—but that' s another complaint entirely). I looked like I was elbowed in the socket by an angry bedmate, and though I do have a penchant for stealing the covers, I' m pretty sure that didn' t happen. Did I mention my nose was running? So here' s what I had yesterday in a nutshell: a searing sore throat, a single operative eye, and a dribbling nose. I was gruff, winking and weepy. There' s only one magical thing that can save a gal on a day like that one, and it' s called a gut full of soup.

But, there' s a rub: it' s hard to make soup during a Houston summer. Once June rolls around, I am in a knockdown, drag-out fight with the heat. It' s all I can do to peel myself out of bed and trudge lugubriously from place to place, feigning efficiency. Walking the dog is a serious undertaking, as is taking out the garbage; watering the plants; making it from the driveway to the front door. Am I the only weirdo in the world to get a head cold during the dog days of summer?
In any case, the typical chicken soup nostrum is not something I gravitated to during my febrile bout. I had no homemade chicken stock on hand, and the idea of simmering a bird in quarts of water for hours did not appeal to my already over-heated house and head. Skimming fat off the bubbling broth while blowing my bubbling nose seemed too unglamorous for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bounty of summertime produce—a heady, red dash of Lycopene and vitamin C, which did wonders for my ailing sinuses and broken immunity.

I' m the kind of gal who can never have enough tomatoes, even when they' re rolling off my countertops. I feel like a kid who greedily stuffed her pockets with too many marbles. Tomatoes are spilling out all over the place, tumbling from their colander perch, overflowing from brown paper bags and falling like un-ripened Humpty Dumpties from my windowsill. I' ve grown, bought and hoarded so many sun gold, heirloom and cherry tomatoes that there' s really nothing to do but roast them, turn them into sauce, or make soup.

I had fortuitously roasted a whole batch the day before and was saved by my own unknowing foresight. There they were, shriveled, glazed, red and yellow, beautifully bright and beckoning me from their little glass jar in the refrigerator. There' s nothing so delightful as a sweet roasted tomato, either fresh from the oven or cooled and served on a bed of Arugula. But that is a story for another time. Today I talk about soup.
A few other summer odds and ends were also put into the mix, including two recently roasted red peppers, some garlic and a bunch of basil. What emerged was a warm, red broth that did wonders for my irritated throat and heat-induced irascible mood. I was soothed and calmed from top to bottom. If only there were a recipe to cure stinkeye.

Roasted Tomato Soup

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size

2 large red peppers, cored and quartered

3 yellow onions, quartered

1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil

3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken

1 c basil, torn plus 1 Tbsp basil chiffonade

Turbinado sugar

Balsamic vinegar

Olive oil

Dash of heavy cream (optional)

S & p

—-
Spread tomatoes skin-side down on a large baking sheet along with peppers, onions and garlic bulb. Drizzle with balsamic vinegar, olive oil and a shake or two of salt and Turbinado sugar.

Roast at 450 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the tomatoes have collapsed and the onions have caramelized. Rotate if necessary.

In the meantime, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins into a large bowl. Add the roasted vegetables, 1 c basil and broth to the bowl (if you have an immersion blender) or blend them traditionally, working in small batches to prevent any heat-induced explosions.

Once blended, bring soup to a simmer if it has cooled. When it' s warm enough to eat, swirl in a dash of heavy cream and top with some basil chiffonade. (You can also enjoy this soup cold–as I did for a few days after.)

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