Chicken and Chickpea Soup

Summer has arrived with its particular brand of Long Island heat — the kind that makes the kitchen a negotiation between what I want to cook and what the oven will do to the house temperature. Marvin suggested I take the summer off from heavy cooking. I stared at him until he retracted the suggestion. One does not take a summer off from cooking. One adapts. I made a cold borscht this week — beets, sour cream, dill, chilled until it is the color of a sunset and the temperature of a reasonable compromise. Sylvia made cold borscht every summer. She said it was the only soup you could eat in July without losing your dignity. She was correct.

David brought the children down on Saturday. Ethan is walking now with the determined wobble of a toddler who has discovered that vertical locomotion opens doors, literally and metaphorically. He walked directly into my kitchen, pulled open the drawer where I keep the wooden spoons, and removed one with the authority of a man selecting a tool for important work. He then banged it on the floor for ten minutes. I let him. Every chef starts somewhere.

Sophie is two months old and gorgeous in the way that all two-month-olds are gorgeous — more potential than person, more future than present. Jennifer is tired. She has the specific exhaustion of a woman managing a toddler and a newborn simultaneously, which is the kind of exhaustion that does not respond to sleep because there is no sleep, only intervals between crises. I made her my mother's chicken soup with extra noodles and told her to eat it and rest. She ate. I held Sophie. The system works.

I wrote a blog post about cold summer soups — borscht, chilled cucumber, gazpacho — and how Sylvia adapted her cooking to the seasons not because she read about seasonal eating in a magazine but because she was a practical woman who lived without air conditioning until 1978 and knew that a hot stove in July was a form of domestic combat. I wrote about the Grand Concourse in summer, the fire hydrants open on the street, the children running through the water, the smell of borscht from every third apartment window. The Bronx of my childhood was not beautiful in the way postcards are beautiful. It was beautiful in the way that a life being lived is beautiful — messy, noisy, drenched in beet soup and ambition.

Marvin ate three bowls of borscht and said, "This is the best thing you've ever made." He says this about a different dish every week. I let him. Consistency is overrated. Enthusiasm is not.

The borscht was for me and Marvin — for the pleasure of a cold July evening and the satisfaction of a thing done well. But the soup I made for Jennifer deserves its own moment. When someone is running on no sleep and sheer determination, you do not bring them something clever. You bring them chicken and chickpeas, a deep broth, and enough noodles to constitute a meal and a half. This is the recipe I reach for when feeding someone who has forgotten to take care of herself, because it is the kind of soup that does the remembering for you.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
3 medium carrots, peeled and sliced into rounds
3 stalks celery, sliced
1 1/2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs
1 can (15 oz) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 cup egg noodles or small pasta
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1 bay leaf
Salt and black pepper to taste
Fresh parsley, chopped, for serving
Lemon wedges, for serving

Instructions

Sauté the aromatics. Heat olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
Add the vegetables. Stir in the carrots and celery. Cook for another 3–4 minutes, letting them begin to soften.
Build the broth. Add the chicken thighs whole, the chickpeas, chicken broth, thyme, oregano, and bay leaf. Season generously with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a steady simmer.
Simmer the chicken. Cook uncovered for 25 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through and tender. Remove the chicken thighs and set aside on a cutting board.
Shred and return. Use two forks to shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces. Return the shredded chicken to the pot. Discard the bay leaf.
Cook the noodles. Bring the soup back to a gentle boil. Add the egg noodles and cook according to package directions, usually 6–8 minutes, until tender.
Taste and finish. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper. Ladle into bowls, top with fresh parsley, and serve with a lemon wedge for a bright finish.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chicken and Chickpea Soup — The Bowl I Made for Jennifer When Sleep Was a Memory