Upholding and Sharing Culinary Traditions
January 1 is when most Haitians in the diaspora eat soup joumou (in Haitian Creole joumou is pumpkin/squash). It’s a hearty soup made with the kabocha squash and consists of many root and starch vegetables, meat (traditionally beef), and pasta of some sort (some use spaghetti, some use penne or rigatoni). We eat it to celebrate Haiti’s independence from France, but it’s common to find it served on any given day, too. The history behind this soup is that the French were the only ones allowed to eat it; it was considered a delicacy. When the Blacks won the war, they made soup joumou the official dish celebrating our independence. The other day, I learned that the soup was created by Jean-Jacques Dessaline’s (leader of the Haitian Revolution) wife. She gathered ingredients chock full of vitamins and came up with this soup to feed the hungry. Either story is compelling and now I don’t know which one to give when I tell people the origins behind the soup.
This year, I decided to make soup joumou, which is something I never liked. I have bad memories from my childhood, my father forcing me to eat something he refused to touch. Whenever my mother made it (which was rare, since my father wouldn’t eat it), I knew I’d go to bed hungry because I struggled to eat even half a bowl. I was confused about the presence of spaghetti floating in the soup instead of a smaller pasta, like elbow macaroni. I’ve seen people add small pieces of corn on the cob in their soup, which intrigued me. I thought about taking a few pieces, rinsing them off, and eating them — but I never tried. At gatherings, such as funeral repasts or baptism parties, where the soup is often served, I steered clear of it. It seemed every Haitian but me loved the soup. I wanted to like it, but my relationship with soup joumou had a broken foundation and I didn’t know if I’d ever come to like it.
I’ve seen myriad of ways Haitian chefs make this dish. I’ve seen the soup blended to a silky, creamy soup (this is a version one of my sisters told me I’d love — she tried it and vouched that I would find it suitable). I’ve seen coconut milk added to it. That version I’d be interested in trying. It sounds delicious, but it’s not soup joumou. Yet, the one version I want to learn to enjoy and savor is the original, traditional soup joumou. And to do that, I had to learn how to make it.
Besides wanting to learn how to make and like soup joumou, part of my inspiration was based in wanting to ease my mind and heart after Marcus Samuelson’s and Bon Appétit’s shameful recipe for the dish. I was also inspired by wanting to share something from my culture that my African-American fiancé has never experienced. On occasion he’s asked me about the soup and why he had never seen me eat or make it. I told him about my aversion to it. But I didn’t want my dislike for it to rob him of tasting an important cultural dish when I was confident that I can make it for him. When I told my fiancé that I was making it this New Year, he got excited. He also asked me to cook a traditional New Year’s Day dish for African-Americans: black-eyed peas. Another thing I am not fond of — beans*. The story behind this tradition goes that eating a spoonful of black-eyed peas will bring you good luck for the year. From what I read about this, you’re supposed to eat it with greens (or cabbage), cornbread, and pork (I learned from a friend recently that you’re supposed to put okra on top of the peas — I had not heard of this before). The cornbread represents gold, greens represents money, pork represents “pig[s] root[ing] forward when foraging,” and the black-eyed peas represent prosperity. I had tasted black-eyed peas for the first time last New Year’s. That one taste informed me on how to prepare and cook the peas. I was looking forward to making two culturally significant dishes for New Year’s Day.
Last weekend, I messaged my mother letting her know I was going to make soup joumou. I needed to speak with her to get the recipe. I had seen recipes on Facebook, Haitian social media outlets, and in Haitian cookbooks, so I had a rudimentary understanding of how to make it. When I got my mother on the phone, she went through the array ingredients: kabocha squash, plantain, cabbage, my meat of choice (I used chicken since my fiancé doesn’t eat red meat), herbs, spices, and extra touches. I was ready — I just needed to place my grocery delivery order.
Wouldn’t you know, my local grocery store does not sell this kabocha squash. None of the local grocery stores did and it was frustrating. I wanted to make it right the first time and not disrespect the soul — the significance — of the dish. I called my mother and she told me I could substitute with butternut squash. In my head I winced — this is going to taste way different, but okay, I have no choice. I’m all in now.
I also called my fiancé’s aunt to provide some tips on how to cook the black-eyed peas. She gave me the preparation and cooking instructions, and added, “I use anything in my spice cabinet to season my black-eyed peas. Anything that would be delicious, I add.” I took that as a recommendation.
I had to cancel my grocery delivery order due to logistics issues, so I had to brave the holiday rush in person.** When I got to the aisle with dried beans, I was surprised to see there was one bag of black-eyed peas left. Not that I am aware of the bean supply when I go to the grocery store, but I found it unusual considering no other bean was close to being sold out. I grabbed the last bag. With all the ingredients I needed (except plantains — they were out, ugh!), I headed to the line to checkout.
I woke up late on the first day of the year. I forgot to soak the peas overnight. I wanted to get the soup started early because I knew I was in for a lot of cleaning, peeling, and chopping. I wanted to make sure I executed both dishes well. I had a challenging start to my day in the kitchen.
When I finally made it into the kitchen, I pulled out all of my ingredients and put on my earbuds to listen to some music as I cooked. For inspiration, I found the Coupe Cloué playlist on Spotify and got to work. I prepared the black-eyed peas first. I went over the peas (checked for rocks and other debris) and rinsed them. I put them in an enamel cast iron pot and added a few fresh sprigs of thyme, a few cloves of crushed fresh garlic, sliced shallot, jalapeño slices, cut up bell pepper (not green, because I don’t like the bitterness and it upsets my stomach), seasoned salt, paprika, salt, pepper, a smoked turkey leg, and water (enough to cover the leg). I stirred the ingredients and tasted the liquid to make sure there was enough of everything I threw into the pot. I brought it to a boil, covered the pot, and reduced the heat to a simmer, allowing the peas to cook through (I didn’t check the time to see for how long, I just knew when they were ready using my “intuition timer”).
While the peas were cooking, I started cleaning, peeling, and chopping ingredients for the soup. I prepared the squash, potatoes, carrots, turnips, cabbage, leeks, green onion, thyme, habanero pepper, garlic, shallots, parsley. (My mother forgot to tell me to add malanga, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from making the soup.) I took out the chicken legs I had marinating since the night before to bring them to room temperature so they would cook evenly. In between doing my mise en place, I cooked my chicken legs thoroughly and gave them a nice dark brown color (“nice dark brown” = broiled them too long). I reserved the juices the meat created to add into the soup.
I sautéed the leeks in vegetable oil and added the shallots and garlic. I tied the sprigs of thyme with thread (I couldn’t find my kitchen yarn) and threw the bunch into the pot. I cooked everything on a medium-low temperature, teasing out the sweet fragrance of onion and garlic. When everything softened, I threw all the vegetables into the pot and stuck the chicken legs inside around the perimeter of the pot. I topped it with a sprinkling of parsley leaves and an habanero pepper in the center. I seasoned some water with salt, pepper, apple cider vinegar, and a touch of épis*** and poured it into the pot, covering all the ingredients. I also added the reserved liquid from when I cooked the chicken legs earlier. I stirred the pot and tasted the liquid to ensure I seasoned it well. I covered the pot and brought it to a boil. By this time, I had removed the black-eyed peas from the stove. When I tested them, they tasted quite delicious. The texture was a touch of a struggle, but overall, I was proud of myself. I ladled the contents into a bowl.
When the squash chunks were cooked, I removed them from the pot. This took a lot of fishing work, but I got all the chunks out after sifting with a slotted spoon. I blended the squash and poured the purée into the pot. The broth turned into a thinly, pulpy orange. I stirred to incorporate the purée well. My pot smelled divine and when I tasted the soup, I squealed. It tasted so far better than the bad memories I had of this dish. I knew using a different squash would alter the flavor, but would it do so significantly? Or not? Was I wrong all this time and just associated the bad memory with a perceived bad flavor? If so, I wasted many years skipping out on this soup.
I added the last touch to the dish — pasta. My mother told me to not use penne or rigatoni (as I’ve seen some people use as an alternative to spaghetti) because the holes for those shapes are too big. (Disclaimer: if you use rigatoni or penne, that’s A-okay — it’s a matter of preference.) She said growing up, they used tubini; I had never heard of that shape before. So, I got one I felt would be a good substitute. I used cellentani-shaped pasta (another name for cavatappi) and my mother approved it. I added the pasta and cooked the soup for about 12 minutes longer (I didn’t dump the pasta in at the same time as the other ingredients, per my mother’s instructions because I didn’t want soggy or overcooked pasta). I tested the pasta after 12 minutes and it was perfect. I ladled the soup into a bowl. It was not the traditional soup joumou as I had hoped to make, but I was happy with the results, missing ingredients notwithstanding.
When it was time to eat, I prepared two bowls of soup and two ramekins of black-eyed peas. My fiancé took one bite of the peas and his face melted. “Mmmm! You stuck your foot in this!” *scraping the ramekin* “This is some of the best black-eyed peas I’ve ever had!” I was pleasantly shocked. I executed the black-eyed peas flawlessly!
When my fiancé tasted the soup, he also moaned, “Mmmmm” and scraped his bowl clean. He doesn’t like meat on a bone or dark meat, but he stripped that chicken leg of all its parts. He was very pleased with the soup and grateful that I had shared something culturally significant to me. I was proud of myself for having executed two never-before-tried recipes wonderfully the first time around.
While writing this post, I had paused to think about our ancestors, who made these dishes before us — whether they decided to take back the dish and make it theirs or created a dish to feed the needy. I thought of those who came before us, who ate these dishes with the same eagerness and fondness. How did my ancestors react the first time their lips touched this soup? What spices did my fiancé’s ancestors use to season their black-eyed peas? What changes were made along the way to each dish before they reached our modern kitchens and warmed our bellies? Superstitions and lore aside, our people made good dishes that have stood the test of time. These are classic, memorable, delicious meals that I look forward to making again. And next time, I will make the traditional soup joumou with kabocha squash and make sure to add malanga and plantain.
*I abhor the texture of beans. There’s only one way I eat them and that’s as sòs pwa. I blend all the beans, which removes the texture issue for me.
**I have barely gone in the grocery store since the pandemic started about a year ago; this is why I signed up for a grocery delivery service. But I was determined to make this soup and black-eyed peas.
***A spice blend, épis is used in many Haitian households. I will write a future post about épis.
****Please excuse the quality of the pics. I promise future pics will look much better.
