Vegan Cashew Cream of Broccoli Soup

Last month at the dental office. May. The countdown. Dr. Whitfield has been uncharacteristically... warm. Not effusive — Whitfield doesn't do effusive — but warm. He brought me coffee Monday morning. COFFEE. Dr. Whitfield, who has never brought anyone anything except critique and occasionally grudging approval, brought me coffee. I almost dropped it from the shock. He said: "You've been here nine years, Mitchell. The coffee is the least of what you're owed." Nine years. The entire arc of my professional career, from the nervous new hygienist who was too scared of Whitfield to breathe, to the woman who is leaving to open a restaurant. Nine years in this chair, cleaning these teeth, building a community screening program that serves 130 people per event. Nine years. The coffee is symbolic. The coffee says: I'm going to miss you. In Whitfield-speak, coffee is a eulogy.

The patients. The patients are being told. Mrs. Henderson, at her regular six-month cleaning, heard the news and said: "Honey, I'm going to miss your hands, but I'm going to eat at your restaurant every week." Every week. Mrs. Henderson, who has been bringing butterscotch candies to her dental appointments for nine years, is going to eat at Sarah's Table every week. The first committed regular. The first person who chose Sarah's Table before it existed. The butterscotch will transfer. The relationship will survive the career change. The hands that cleaned teeth will make cornbread and the patient will become a customer and the customer was always a friend and the friend will always be there.

The community screening: the last one I'll run. 134 people. The record. The all-time record. Broken again, on the last one. The program that started with forty-seven and grew to 134 will continue without me — Brian is ready, Wanda will help, the volunteers are trained. The program is bigger than me. The program was always bigger than me. I was just the hands. The hands leave. The program stays. That's how it's supposed to work.

Amira was there. The girl with the braids. The girl who was eight years old at the first screening and said "can I be a dentist?" and then "I want to be like you." She's fourteen now. She's in high school. She came to the last screening and she found me and she said: "Ms. Sarah, I'm still going to be a dentist. Thank you for showing me." Thank you for showing me. The girl I cried over in the supply closet. The girl who wanted to be like me. She's still coming. She's still aiming. She's still going to be a dentist. And I'm leaving dentistry. And the leaving doesn't undo the showing. The showing was the gift. The showing lives in Amira now. The showing doesn't need me anymore. The showing is hers.

I made Earline's chicken and dumplings. The transition food. The food for every change. The food that held me through dental hygiene school and the Waffle House and Marcus and Terrence and the pandemic and now the leaving. The dumplings floated in the broth and I ate them standing at my home stove — the home stove that has been the practice kitchen for the commercial kitchen for the storefront kitchen — and I said goodbye. Not to the dumplings. To the scaler. To the dental chair. To nine years of teeth and fluoride and Mrs. Henderson's butterscotch. Goodbye. Thank you. The cornbread is calling. The church is almost open.

I made Earline’s chicken and dumplings the night I said goodbye to nine years of teeth and fluoride and butterscotch candies, but when I sat down to share something with you—something you could actually make at home—I kept coming back to this soup. There’s something about a warm, creamy bowl that does the same work as dumplings floating in broth: it holds you while you’re in the in-between. If you’re in your own kind of transition—leaving something good to chase something true—make this. Let the steam rise. The next thing is coming.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 40 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 cup raw cashews, soaked in water for at least 2 hours and drained
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
4 cups broccoli florets (about 2 medium heads)
3 cups vegetable broth, divided
1 cup water
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 tablespoon nutritional yeast (optional, for depth)
Juice of 1/2 lemon

Instructions

Soak and blend the cashews. Drain soaked cashews and add them to a blender with 1 cup of the vegetable broth. Blend on high for 60–90 seconds until completely smooth and creamy. Set aside.
Sauté the aromatics. Heat olive oil in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook for 5–6 minutes, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent. Add the minced garlic and cook another 60 seconds until fragrant.
Add broccoli and broth. Add the broccoli florets, remaining 2 cups of vegetable broth, and the water to the pot. Stir to combine. Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 12–15 minutes, until the broccoli is very tender.
Season the soup. Stir in onion powder, garlic powder, smoked paprika, black pepper, salt, and nutritional yeast if using. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Blend until smooth. Use an immersion blender to blend the soup directly in the pot until smooth and creamy. Alternatively, carefully transfer in batches to a standing blender. Blend until velvety.
Stir in the cashew cream. Pour the reserved cashew cream into the blended soup and stir well to incorporate. Return the pot to low heat for 2–3 minutes, stirring gently, until the soup is uniformly warm and slightly thickened.
Finish and serve. Stir in the lemon juice. Ladle into bowls and top with a drizzle of olive oil, a pinch of smoked paprika, or extra broccoli florets if desired. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Vegan Cashew Cream of Broccoli Soup — The Warmth You Make When You’re Ready to Begin Again