Chunky Pepper Potato Soup

Dad went to the doctor Friday. He drove himself, which he insisted on, and Mom and I waited at home. She baked bread, which is what she does when she's nervous — the physical activity, the reliable process, something that produces a result she can control. The bread came out excellent and neither of us tasted it until after he got back.

He came in the kitchen door at two-fifteen and sat down at the table and Mom put a plate of bread and butter in front of him and poured him coffee. He drank half the coffee before he said anything. Then he said: Parkinson's disease. Early stage.

The three of us sat with that for a minute. Then Mom put her hand on top of his and left it there. I didn't say anything because there was nothing useful to say yet, and saying something to fill a silence that deserves to be itself is the wrong instinct. He talked a little about what the doctor explained — that it was early, that with medication and management the progression could be slow, that people lived full lives with it for many years. He said these things in the flat informational tone he uses for facts, no more emotion in it than he'd use for the weather report.

After a while I went out to the shop and sat in the chair by the workbench for about an hour. I looked at Linda's card above the bench and I thought about Patrick Gallagher — my father, the most private man I know — and what his body is going to do to him slowly and what he knows about that and what he'll say about it and probably what he won't say about it. I thought about the word early. I let it mean what it means.

Mom made soup for dinner. I don't remember what kind. We ate it together at the kitchen table and talked about the spring planting schedule and the farrier accounts and the Brennan family's new horse, and none of those things were what we were thinking about, and that was fine. That was the right meal for what the day was.

I don’t remember what soup Mom made that night — I wrote that in the story and it’s true — but when I went looking for what to put here, this is the one I kept coming back to. Chunky pepper potato soup is the kind of thing she’d make: nothing showy, nothing that requires you to think too hard, just good ingredients in a pot that come out tasting like someone gave a damn. That’s the meal that day deserved. If you’re feeding people through something hard, this is the one.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 50 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 bell peppers (1 red, 1 green), seeded and chopped into 3/4-inch pieces
1 1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
4 cups low-sodium chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup whole milk
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
Salt and black pepper to taste
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, for serving

Instructions

Soften the aromatics. Melt butter 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 peppers. Stir in the chopped bell peppers and cook for another 4–5 minutes, until they begin to soften but still hold their shape. Season lightly with salt and pepper.
Add potatoes and broth. Add the potato chunks and pour in the broth. Stir in the smoked paprika and thyme. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to a steady simmer.
Simmer until tender. Cook uncovered for 18–22 minutes, until the potatoes are completely tender when pierced with a fork. Some chunks may break down slightly — that’s fine and adds body to the broth.
Add milk and finish. Reduce heat to low. Stir in the milk and let the soup warm through for 3–4 minutes. Do not boil. Taste and adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.
Serve. Ladle into bowls and top with fresh parsley. Serve with thick-sliced buttered bread if you have it.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chunky Pepper Potato Soup — The Meal That Holds You When Words Won’t