Turkey Pot Pie Soup

The week after Thanksgiving is the week the world starts playing Christmas music, which I tolerate the way I tolerate cold weather: with resignation and extra layers. I am not a Scrooge — I love Christmas, love what it means, love the way Mt. Zion decorates the sanctuary with greens and candles and the choir practices the Messiah for six weeks beforehand. But I am a man who believes Christmas should stay in December, and November Christmas music is trespassing.

The house still smelled like turkey on Monday. That's one of the gifts of smoking: the smell lingers, seeps into curtains and cushions and the very walls, a flavor ghost that reminds you of the meal for days after. Rosetta says the house smells like a smokehouse. I say the house smells like love. She says those are the same thing. I married the right woman.

The leftover turkey became three meals this week. Monday: turkey sandwiches on white bread with cranberry sauce and a leaf of lettuce that Rosetta added to make it "healthy," as if a single leaf of lettuce can undo a smoked turkey sandwich. Tuesday: turkey soup — the carcass simmered for four hours with onion, carrot, celery, and garlic to make a stock so rich and golden it looked like liquid amber, then the leftover meat added back in with egg noodles and fresh thyme. Turkey soup is an argument for leftovers being better than the original meal. The smoke that's in the bones comes out in the stock, and every spoonful carries the memory of Thanksgiving in it. Wednesday: turkey and rice casserole — leftover turkey mixed with rice, mushroom cream sauce (from scratch, Rosetta's recipe), and topped with breadcrumbs and baked until bubbly. Three meals from one bird. Pearlie Mae would be proud. In the shotgun house, nothing was wasted. Bones became stock. Fat became seasoning. Leftovers became dinner. Poverty taught my mother to cook, and cooking taught me that waste is the opposite of love.

Friday was the first of December — well, almost — and the mail was heavy. Holiday cards starting, packages arriving, the annual flood of catalogs and advertisements that turns my mailbag into a forty-five-pound test of my already-tested back. I don't mind the holiday mail. I like delivering it. Every card is someone thinking of someone else, and every package is a gift traveling from one pair of hands to another, and I am the person who moves it between them. That's a good job. I tell people my job is carrying letters, but really my job is carrying connections, and there's no season when connections matter more than this one.

Saturday Marcus called to tell me Angela's parents have invited us — me and Rosetta — to dinner in Covington. Harold and Dorothy Foster want to meet the parents of the young man who's been sitting at their dinner table for eight months. I said I'd be honored. Rosetta said she'd bring a dish. Marcus said Angela's mother said not to bring anything. Rosetta said, "Marcus, I am bringing a dish. Tell Dorothy Foster that Rosetta Johnson does not arrive empty-handed." I felt a moment of sympathy for Dorothy Foster, because when Rosetta Johnson arrives with a dish, she is arriving with a statement, and the statement is: I am good at this, and my son is good too, and this dish is the proof.

Rosetta made her cornbread dressing. It was magnificent. It is always magnificent. I tried to eat some before we left. She slapped my hand. Thirty-two years. She still slaps my hand. I still try to sneak a bite. Some traditions are not seasonal.

Watching Rosetta carry that cornbread dressing out the door — head high, not a word of apology for showing up with exactly what she said she’d show up with — I thought about what it means to feed people you love as a way of saying something that words don’t quite reach. That feeling stayed with me the rest of the weekend, and when Sunday came around and I had leftover turkey in the refrigerator, I didn’t want anything fussy. I wanted something that said the same thing Rosetta’s dressing always says: I made this for you, and I made it with care. Turkey pot pie soup is exactly that kind of dish.

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

Ingredients

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 medium carrots, peeled and sliced into coins
3 stalks celery, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
4 cups turkey stock (or chicken broth)
2 cups whole milk or half-and-half
3 cups cooked turkey, shredded or roughly chopped
1 cup frozen peas
1 cup frozen corn
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
Salt and black pepper to taste
Oyster crackers or torn pie crust croutons, for serving

Instructions

Build the base. Melt butter in a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the onion, carrots, and celery and cook, stirring occasionally, for 6 to 8 minutes until the vegetables are softened and the onion is translucent. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more.
Make the roux. Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables and stir well to coat everything evenly. Cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes to eliminate the raw flour taste.
Add the stock. Pour in the turkey stock slowly, whisking as you go to prevent lumps. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring the mixture to a gentle boil, then reduce to a simmer.
Add the cream and turkey. Stir in the milk or half-and-half, then add the shredded turkey. Simmer uncovered for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the soup thickens slightly.
Finish with vegetables and seasoning. Add the frozen peas, corn, thyme, and garlic powder. Season generously with salt and black pepper. Simmer another 5 to 7 minutes until the vegetables are heated through and the soup is velvety and rich.
Serve. Ladle into deep bowls and top with oyster crackers or pie crust croutons. The soup keeps well refrigerated for up to 4 days and reheats beautifully on the stovetop over low heat.

Nutrition (per serving)

Turkey Pot Pie Soup — Every Spoonful Carries the Memory