An Orange Mood

The first mood board I made was on the back of my grade ten bedroom door. I cut out images from magazines and taped then onto the white painted wood - a vintage jaguar, a woman in a white head scarf, 1980’s lifeguards in OP bathing suits diving into a swimming pool, a bar of Hershey’s chocolate, only available in the US, and The Pet Shop Boys. The colours and images didn’t connect; it wasn’t a cohesive collection. I was sixteen, already a retired synchronized swimmer, a babysitter, a girl who liked to express herself through clothes, a girl who liked things that were hard to find. The mood was dreamy, fun, exotic and sweet. 

Mood boards help you collect your thoughts. Last weekend was a whirlwind. We celebrated my father’s 80th birthday with his requested menu of lasagna, caesar salad and carrot cake (followed by a game of 45’s.) My sister came to visit, we made wreaths from foraged boughs and pinecones, decked the halls, scattered greens, oranges, mandarins and pomegranates over the kitchen mantle, walked dogs, soaked a wine stained tablecloth in soda water, and welcomed Monday with a foot of freshly fallen snow. School was cancelled. We were out of groceries except for carrots, oranges, mandarins and leftover lasagna. The mood, I decided, would be orange things.

Today throat is sore, the kind of sore that comes after early December celebrations all piled together. So I begin by embracing the orange mood with my sister’s cold elixir - peeled and seeded lemons, honey, ginger and turmeric all blended together. But we don’t have any lemons, so I use a few oranges from the mantle decorations instead. I put a tablespoon or so of the mixture into a mug and top it up with boiling water, then put the rest in the fridge, ready for next time. 

I sit down for a moment, take a sip and gaze out the kitchen window. Snow is piled perfectly on the round patio table like a thick marshmallow, cut to fit. I can see ruddy orange rosehips topped in snow, still hanging on the vine. Orange is nice in this drink. It shifts the flavour from tart and medicinal to slight sophistication. I imagine a thin slice of dried orange floating on top, the way a bartender might garnish a Negroni. If it wasn’t so early in the morning, I’d add a splash of whiskey too. 

Meanwhile, my son Rex is rummaging through a drawer of saucepans, mumbling to himself. We’re all out of milk, so instead of his preferred bowl of raisin bran, he is learning to make porridge cooked in water. “How much do I make?” he asks, holding the bag of oatmeal to his face. “It’s all there,” I answer, trying to teach him read the directions himself. I don’t want to be the voice of Google, the easy answer, the manager. “Don’t forget salt,” I say as I begin to peel carrots for soup. “Unsalted porridge is sad and flat. Cream is so good on top, you can use my coffee cream. Oh and maple syrup or brown sugar, either one is delicious too.” I can’t help myself. “No, do not add them now, they are finishers. So are seeds or chopped apples.” Finishers? I am a Google voice now, the bossy kind, the kind who can taste imaginary food and calls porridge toppings finishers. At least I didn’t say flourishes, that’s what I really meant. 

When the porridge is ready, Rex opens the drawer fridge and pulls out the cream. Yes, we have a drawer fridge. Designing the kitchen was a game of tetris, moving imaginary fridges, stoves, wall ovens and sinks around until they fit into the preexisting space in a coherent, accessible way. The fridge fit in just one narrow spot, one that didn’t allow for big wells in the door for jugs (and jugs) of milk.

The drawer fridge sits under the counter that’s home to all the pens, papers, unopened mail, that nice stone bowl filled with playing cards, a shoe lace, sunglasses and the pencil sharpener in the shape of a cannon. This area is called a hot spot. I learned this from a blog post sent to me back in the earliest days of blogging, when the boys were little and the house was constantly teetering on complete disorder. The post was sent by a friend also in the trenches of motherhood and found deep joy in controlling her controllables. She learned tips like, “empty the kitchen sink of everything before you go to bed, fill it with water and a splash of bleach, and when you wake up, drain it, wipe it dry, note the sparkle and hear the angels singing.” Harsh non-environmental cleaning criticisms aside, we all understand the joy of waking up to angels singing. 

I can’t remember what the blog said about hot spots. This one will forever simmer on the counter, expanding and contracting, as the seasons change. I pick up bits and pieces now and then, and if I don’t know what to do whatever is in my hand - a piece of mail that isn’t mine, a husband’s magazine I’m not sure if I can recycle or not, a shoe lace - I put it back down and let it simmer some more. 

Anyway. By now I am sautéing the carrots with onions, garlic and ginger. Soon I’ll add cumin, curry powder, vegetable stock and let it simmer away until the carrots are tender. That’s when I’lI blitz it with the hand blender then add salt, pepper and a spoonful of honey. I wonder if a spoonful of the orange elixir would also work? Probably. 

I top the soup with a spoonful of thick plain yogurt and sit down with my sister. It was a short and sweet visit, she’s leaving tomorrow. She is an elementary school teacher, fortified by years of kid germs. Her throat is clear, she’s full of energy. But we both needed this soup - a little warmth, nourishment, and a touch of orange. 

Later in the week I make this mood board: a totem of citrus from the mantle held together by a meat thermometer and toothpicks. A stem of rosehips. Mandarins with their precious leaves still attached. Our bowl of carrot and ginger soup. The mood board edits out the hot spots and leaves behind a focused story, a wintery orange story, made from simple stuff in the kitchen. 

---

Carrot and Ginger Soup - from Soup! - an out-of-print cookbook by Pippa Cuthbert and Lindsay Cameron Wilson

Serves 4-6

1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced

2 teaspoons ground cumin

1 teaspoon curry powder

750g (about 6) carrots, peeled and chopped

1 large potato, diced

1 sweet potato, diced

1.5 litres (6 cups) vegetable stock

1 tablespoon honey

½ teaspoon salt, or to taste

½ teaspoon ground pepper, or to taste

Melt butter and olive oil in a large pan over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, and ginger and sauté over low heat until onions are soft, about ten minutes. Add the cumin, curry powder and continue to sauté for another minute. Add the carrots, potato, sweet potato and stock and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 30 minutes. 

Purée soup until smooth, return soup to the pot and heat soup over low heat. Stir in the honey, salt and pepper. Serve as is or with a dollop of sour cream or plain yogurt.