Two weeks ago, our neighbor’s children shouted through the trees to our daughter that they were moving. My husband called their dad immediately.
“We love it here, but we can’t handle living in a disaster area anymore,” he said.
Eighteen months ago, Hurricane Ida sent a five-foot-tall wall of water into both of our garages and ripped apart the low-lying decks and walkways they had throughout the yard.
Their landlord was slow to make repairs, and our neighbors — ever patient — remained optimistic that things would go back to how they were before. A year and a half later, they’d had enough.
We understood, but it was a blow. Throughout 2020, our neighbors were some of the only people we saw throughout the worst part of the pandemic. For about six months, their four children were my daughter’s only playmates.
Over the last five years, we’d cooked meals for each other countless times, celebrated children’s birthday’s together, and gathered in each other’s yards to drink wine and watch the kids play in the normally docile creek.
When our homes flooded in 2021, the children and their mother were visiting family in Russia while their father fled with us to higher ground. Because the flood left their home uninhabitable for months, he lived with us for three weeks until the rest of the family returned.
Over the past year, with our ever busier post-pandemic lives, we hadn’t seen them as often as we used to, but our bond — forged through two disasters — still felt strong.
Soon after we heard the news of their impending move, we invited them for dinner. I made lamb tagine with couscous and a bright and crunchy salad.
They brought us a gorgeous loaf of homemade rye bread.
The children ran through the house, their deafening screams barely interrupting our conversations, which flowed as easily as usual. We toasted to the end of an era — one where the kids would play outside for hours and we’d get together for impromptu chats.
The next day, my husband and I felt almost overwhelmingly sad. Not only were we losing great neighbors, but we realized that this idyllic piece of my daughter’s childhood was about to be — poof — gone.
That night, I created this soup to go along with the rye bread they baked us. Since our neighbors are originally from Russia, I added pickles in their honor and a bit of the vinegary pickle brine.
To add more depth of flavor, I broke out a jar of harissa — the North African chile paste that brings a spiced heat. (I love the Preserved Lemon Harissa from NY Shuk, but any type works well.)
While it wasn’t intentional, the soup’s salty, tangy broth tasted like warm tears and gave me the comfort of a good cry.
The soup is also just — really tasty. When I cooked it again to take the photo, my husband said, “Well, that’s damn delicious.”
Light and brothy, it’s the kind of soup we need as we move toward spring. To turn it into a heartier meal, serve it with good-quality rye bread and salted butter.
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