Pumpkin Spice Blend — The Secret Behind Sixteen Years of October Soup

October. The leaves peaked on Wednesday — the same day they peak every year, give or take, the city going gold in a single breath. I drove along Skyline Drive and I looked and I didn't pull over to cry. I looked. The colors were the same. The lake was the same. The beauty was the same. The beauty is the same without Paul. This is the thing I'm learning — slowly, reluctantly, with the resistance of a woman who believed for thirty-two years that beauty was shared and that unshared beauty was diminished. It isn't diminished. It's different. Solitary beauty has its own weight, its own intensity. You carry it alone and the carrying makes it heavier and heavier things leave deeper impressions. The Damiano Center on Thursday. Gerald had two bowls. He said, "Autumn soup. Best season." I said, "Every season is the best, Gerald." He said, "That's what you always say." I said, "Because it's always true." He grinned. The two-fingered grin. I've been making soup for Gerald and the others for sixteen years now. Sixteen years of Thursdays. Eight hundred and thirty-two batches of wild rice soup (approximately — I've missed some weeks for vacations and blizzards and a pandemic). Eight hundred and thirty-two Thursdays. Forty-one thousand six hundred gallons of soup. The math is absurd and beautiful. Peter called on Sunday. Fourteen months sober. He's been promoted at work — lead structural engineer on a bridge project in downstate Illinois. He said, "The bridge is beautiful, Mom." I said, "Tell me about it." He talked about spans and load-bearing and the particular engineering of a bridge that crosses a river valley, and I listened with the same attention I used to give Paul's shipwreck monologues. My men — the one I married and the one I raised — both talk about structures that cross water. The parallel isn't lost on me. I made an October dinner: pumpkin soup with sage and brown butter. The same recipe from two years ago, from the season before the diagnosis. The same soup, the same kitchen, the same table. But the cook is different. The cook is alone. The cook is okay. Okay. I said it. I'm okay. Not great. Not healed. Not over it (you don't get over it — you get through it, and the getting-through is permanent). But okay. Seven months after Paul's death. In October. In the gold. Okay.

The pumpkin soup I made that Thursday — the one I’ve been making since the season before the diagnosis — starts with this blend. Not a packet from the store shelf, not a pre-measured jar: just five spices measured out by hand on a Tuesday afternoon, combined in a small bowl, the kitchen smelling like October before the soup even begins. If you asked me why I make it from scratch, I’d say the same thing I’d say about the Thursdays at Damiano: because the making of it is part of what it gives you. This is what goes into the warmth.

Pumpkin Spice Blend

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: Makes about 6 tablespoons (enough for multiple batches)

Ingredients

• 3 tablespoons ground cinnamon
• 2 teaspoons ground ginger
• 2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon ground cloves

Instructions

1. Measure. Measure all five spices into a small bowl. Use fresh spices if possible — ground spices lose potency after about a year, and you’ll taste the difference in October soup.
2. Combine. Whisk or stir the spices together until fully blended and uniform in color. The mixture should be a warm, deep amber-brown.
3. Store. Transfer to a small airtight jar or container with a tight-fitting lid. Label with the date. Store in a cool, dark place (a spice drawer or pantry shelf away from the stove) for up to six months.
4. Use. Add 1 to 2 teaspoons per cup of pumpkin puree in soups, or 1 to 1 1/2 teaspoons per batch of baked goods. For pumpkin soup, start with 1 1/2 teaspoons and adjust to taste after simmering.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 6 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 1mg