There is more, of course, to my mom than what I posted last week, so I ask for your forbearance as I continue to share our stories. This is my way of preserving her legacy and keeping her nearby as we (by which I mean my “immediate extended family,” as my sister put it) figure out how to move forward on our own. Today’s post is the story of what I think may have been the best gift my mother ever received.

My mother had no particular interest in beautiful clothing, and no use for expensive jewelry. The closet in her bedroom and the one in the hallway were filled with her favorite sweatshirts. My father worked in the perfume and cosmetics industry, but she didn’t care much about those either. She was a very direct and straightforward person, so you always knew where you stood. The quickest way to get into an argument with my mother was to make a suggestion that might require her to consider spending her hard-earned resources on trappings, which she did not consider important. What she cared about was family, friends, food, and function. If it didn’t build a roof over our heads, educate and foster independence, or put food in our bellies, it meant nothing to her. It is the most natural thing in the world that I became interested in teaching people how best to nourish themselves.

After I turned 15, my family moved to a small farm in west central New Jersey, and my parents began immediately to fill it with an enormous assortment of creatures that, over the years, came to include steer, chickens, peacocks, geese, French guinea hens, sheep, a goat, and a multitude of cats and dogs. My folks lived there for 44 years, from 1973 to 2017, until they finally relinquished the farm and moved to Cleveland to be closer to us. Next door, actually.

The farm had a big old farm house, and the living room (great room) in that house had an enormous fireplace — maybe 6 feet across. Any excuse for a fire was good enough for my mom. In the winter, there was almost always a fire blazing, especially when company came over, which was basically all the time. But we made fires year-round, not just in winter. Cool summer nights were a good time for a fire, as were the many cold, rainy, weekend days when my mom would put up a huge pot of soup to cook on the kitchen stove first thing in the morning. By mid-afternoon, the soup ready, everyone would ladle up a mugful, and then go sit in front of the fire to warm themselves inside and out, simultaneously.

We were more than satisfied, but my dad knew that she still wasn’t. And that is why he arranged one day for a masonry worker to come and install a long-armed, metal bracket along the left inner wall of the fireplace. When my mom saw that bracket, she was over the moon. She could not stop talking about it, dragging every new arrival over to the fireplace to admire her precious new addition. This went on for months. She found a heavy, cast-iron Dutch oven at a local antique shop and hung it ceremoniously from the new bracket. After that she made her soups in the fireplace pot. It remained there for decades, until they moved to Cleveland. She swung out the bracket to fill the pot with ingredients, and then swung it back in to cook. Never mind perfume, or jewelry, or sweaters. That fireplace bracket was undoubtedly the best gift my mom ever received.

N.B. If you thought I might include a recipe, here’s what you need to know about my mom’s soups. First, she never used a recipe. Never. My mom was a free spirit. Secondly, her soups never came out the same twice. Thirdly, they often but not always contained some combination of split peas, dry beans, onions, carrots, and garlic. Plus whatever else she felt like adding. Maybe barley. But maybe not. Maybe mushrooms. Maybe chicken. Or beef. Maybe tiny noodles, and maybe a can of tomatoes. Or maybe not. It was just mom’s soup.

Photo from Todd Schneider