{"id":92,"date":"2009-11-23T17:19:00","date_gmt":"2009-11-23T17:19:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/2009\/11\/23\/broth-for-a-rainy-day"},"modified":"2009-11-23T17:19:00","modified_gmt":"2009-11-23T17:19:00","slug":"broth-for-a-rainy-day","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/2009\/11\/23\/broth-for-a-rainy-day\/","title":{"rendered":"Broth for a rainy day"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a> Dear Jammy,<\/span><\/p>\n Thank you for the soup. It cheered me up. Just a few criticisms:<\/p>\n The bits of cabbage and bacon are rather large and difficult to eat, and so as a soup it requires a knife, fork, and spoon to eat it. Perhaps next time you could chop the bits up a little smaller.<\/p>\n Your grandfather says it was too salty.<\/p>\n G<\/p>\n Now there’s gratitude. I’m sure Grannie was right, yet part of this soup’s charm is its very ruggedness – it’s big and brutish and slurpy and utterly warming; ideal for this bout of miserable weather. It is also very much a blank canvas of a soup. You could tinker around with it until the cows come home, adding fennel seed and sausage, pasta and Parmesan – even some mushrooms. It’s a t’riffic fridge slut.<\/a> This is just how I happened to do it today.<\/p>\n
\nI once made this soup for my grandmother when she was poorly, devoted grandson that I am. A couple of hours later a fax arrived with a handwritten note from Grannie.<\/p>\n