
Chef Thomas
A Proper Chicken Broth
Sunday's roast chicken, simmered slowly on Monday with carrots, celery, leeks, and thyme into a bowl of clear, golden broth that smells like the kitchen is paying attention.
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A bowlful of early spring gathered from the hedgerow, cooked with potato and stock into something vivid and green, the sort of soup that costs nothing and tastes like the season turning.
The nettles came up along the back wall last week, as they always do. Bright, insistent, stinging everything they touched. I put on the rubber gloves, took a carrier bag, and picked the tops off the youngest plants. Ten minutes and the bag was full. The cost of this soup is nothing. The taste of it is spring.
There's something faintly absurd about nettle soup until you've made it. A weed, boiled. But then you taste it and the green is extraordinary: deep and mineral, somewhere between spinach and asparagus, with an earthiness that only wild things carry. A couple of potatoes for body, some butter, good stock, and you have a bowl of soup that feels ancient and alive at the same time.
I make this every April. The notebook entry from the first time says: "Nettles from the lane. Bright green. Better than expected. Much better." That still holds. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one is barely a recipe at all. Pick the nettles. Cook the soup. Put a warm bowl in front of someone. There are few better feelings than that.
Quantity
200g
picked with gloves, washed
Quantity
1 medium
sliced
Quantity
2 medium
peeled and roughly chopped
Quantity
30g
Quantity
1 clove
sliced
Quantity
750ml
Quantity
100ml
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a squeeze
Quantity
a few
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| young nettle topspicked with gloves, washed | 200g |
| onionsliced | 1 medium |
| potatoespeeled and roughly chopped | 2 medium |
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| garlicsliced | 1 clove |
| chicken or vegetable stock | 750ml |
| double cream | 100ml |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
| sorrel or wild garlic leaves (optional) | a few |
Fill the sink with cold water and plunge the nettles in, still wearing your gloves. Swirl them about, lift them out, and drain. They look like a lot. They aren't. Nettles cook down to almost nothing, like spinach but more so. Once they hit the hot pan the sting goes entirely, so don't worry. Just don't touch them raw.
Melt the butter in a heavy-bottomed pan over a gentle heat. Add the sliced onion and a good pinch of salt. Let it soften for eight or ten minutes, stirring now and then, until it's translucent and sweet and the kitchen starts to smell warm. Add the garlic for the last minute. It should barely colour.
Tip in the chopped potatoes and pour over the stock. Bring to a steady simmer and cook with the lid slightly ajar for fifteen minutes or so, until the potato breaks apart when you press it with the back of a spoon. The potato is doing the work of thickening here. No flour, no roux. Just starch and time.
Push the nettles into the pot in handfuls. They'll wilt down in seconds, turning from a wild tangle to a dark, soft mass. If you've found sorrel or wild garlic, add it now too. Let everything simmer together for three or four minutes, no more. Overcooking loses that vivid green and the fresh, mineral taste that makes this worth bothering with.
Take the pan off the heat and blend until completely smooth. A stick blender in the pot is simplest. Stir in the cream and return to a low heat to warm through, but don't let it boil. Add a squeeze of lemon, it lifts the whole thing and sharpens the green flavour. Season and taste. Then taste again. Ladle into warm bowls and serve with bread. Good bread, the kind with a crust that resists you.
1 serving (about 330g)
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