Archeology tells us that humans used fire sporadically wherever it appeared more than a million years ago. About 400,000 years ago we learned to control it, to turn it on and off at will, and this extended our lives because cooking allowed us to eat more and better, and also because it allowed us to extend the days , scrape a few extra hours of light into the darkness and stay awake, warm, facing yourself in the glow of flames at night.
In this space of fascinating radiance around the fire, we simultaneously built awareness of being and belonging, social and cultural identity, exchanged stories, created myths, beyond the world, wherever there was a human group protecting itself from the cold , traditions strengthened and life stimulates imagination, cooking and telling stories.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a land far, far away there was war. A terrible war. As everyone knows, in war there are no people to work the land, the fields burn, the animals flee, the wheat is not planted, the grain is not milled, there is no flour, there is no bread. There is hunger. And fear.
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In it, a soldier arrives in a lost and lonely city on a cold morning, ragged, dry, emaciated and tired. Starving, he approaches the first house and knocks on the door. He asks the suspicious little eyes peering through the half-open gate for a crust of bread, and it strikes with profanities and insults: “Crazy! For you, when no one is there for anyone!” House after house, door after door, between punches and kicks, the soldier always receives the same answer to his request: “Crazy! Out!”
Dejected, the soldier walks away with his head bowed and prepares to continue on his way to try his luck in the next village, when already at the exit of the village he finds a group of girls washing clothes in the river and fluttering around them, a handful Children. A smile lights up, he has an idea and he calls out enthusiastically: “Hey girls! Has anyone ever tried stone soup? Ha! There is no better stone soup in the world than mine!” The girls burst out laughing, but the children… Oh, the children! They immediately abandon everything they had in their hands and run to gather around the soldier. “Stone soup? What is stone soup? Is it delicious?” they shout around him. “Rich, no. Yummy! To prepare it, I need a very large pot, water, twigs to light a fire, a ladle and a handful of stones of the best quality.” As soon as he finishes the sentence, the children run in all directions to arrive after a few minutes to reappear with everything the soldier asked for.
He lights the fire, puts the large pot on it, fills it with water and prepares to carefully examine the stones that the little ones have collected. He separates ten of them, cleans them carefully and throws them one by one into the water, which is already starting to heat up. The children, naturally impatient and curious, wide-eyed, do not miss any detail of the soldier's ceremonial movements and ask: “Is it ready yet?” Can we try? How long?” “Calm down,” he replies. He slowly takes some of the broth with the ladle, blows, tastes and nods. “Delicious. Out comes an excellent stone soup. “It might just need a pinch of salt.” A girl stands up immediately. “My mother has salt at home!”, she runs out and comes back with a bowl full of salt, which she puts in the Pour the pot. After a few minutes, the soldier tries the soup again: “Hmmm delicious. Indeed. “It might just need a tomato top.” A little boy immediately jumps out: “My mother has tomatoes at home!” And that Little runs and goes to his house to search the pantry until he finds the tomato and takes it to where the big pot is cooking. The river girls, who are silently watching the scene from a distance, begin to understand what this is about the game goes. One by one, the little children, who have always been creatures inclined to take part in the extraordinary, bring ingredients and throw them into the pot that is constantly boiling. A few cabbage leaves, a few lettuce stalks, a few potatoes , a ham bone, a suet ball, a handful of dried chickpeas. There are even those that appear with a chicken leg!
After four hours of cooking, the pot full of water, stones, and other things gives off a scent that no one in the city has smelled in years. The soldier gets up, announces that the soup is ready, and sends the children from door to door, all over the city, calling people and asking them to grab plates, bowls, pots, glasses, spoons and knives and help yourself to a soup that has something for everyone.
This story, translated in my own way, is Xesco Boix's version of a traditional story that has so many versions as told by people that I heard on cassette as a child. His first written appearance was entitled Soupe au Caillou and was published in 1720 by the French journalist Madame du Noyer. It was first published in English in a magazine in 1806, from where it quickly made its way to America two years later. According to the Portuguese version, the events take place around Almeirim. The same story is known as clove soup in Scandinavian countries. In Russia there is ax porridge. Today the story is yours.
Since it's Christmas, I took the liberty of telling you a story as if we were around a fire, as if we wanted to remember who we are. Simply because it's Christmas, there's no shortage of soup for anyone.
Merry Christmas.
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