There is Comfort in a Ham Bone

“This ham bone, far from being a melancholy reminder, is still a treasure”-- Edouard de Pomaine.

How very true Pomaine’s words are. For me just knowing that there is a ham bone in my fridge or freezer is very comforting.

Comfort food is closely linked to childhood, I remember my mother taking a ham bone and turning it into a large pot of split pea soup. That bone, with pieces of juicy ham still attached would simmer away in a large pot with some yellow peas, vegetables and water.

The final soup emerged dull yellow in colour, rich and smooth in texture, and filled with the smoky taste of ham, which I loved. Every time we ate ham I was dreaming of the soup to follow.

As with many remembered tastes, the memory is often better than the reality. Time burnishes memory adding a lustre that was never part of the original. I must admit I’d pretty much forgotten this childhood soup until one damp, chilly January day in Paris over a decade ago.

I was with a girl friend, two Australians braving the raw Parisian winter, both cold right through to the bone and longing for the warmth of the Australian sun. The cold, combined with hunger forced us to stop early for lunch. The restaurant was warm and inviting but even inside the Parisian damp didn’t leave my bones. I needed something to warm me from the inside out. There was a soup on the menu so I ordered it.

When the steaming bowl was set in front of me I experienced a Proustian moment. The colour, the smell and then the texture of the first spoonful sent me back to Melbourne and my mother’s kitchen.  But this soup, that transported me half way around the world in a minute, differed from my mother’s soup, it was full of unfamiliar pieces of something. What were they? A second spoonful, then a third and finally I realized they were pieces of sweet, floury chestnut.

Since that day in Paris, every time the humidity rises and the temperature drops causing the marrow in my bones to turn to ice, I make myself a bowl of pea soup. Instantly I am transported to my mother’s kitchen, via Paris.

The soup I make now varies according to my mood and the contents of my refrigerator. The original was always smooth and while mine has a velvety texture, I add the diced meat from the bone or the smoked pork hock that I use when no ham bone is handy. I often recreate that Parisian version adding pieces of freshly roasted chestnut, or cooked sous-vide ones if the season is over.

So what is left of my childhood soup?  Not much, I doubt that my mother would even recognize it.  So while my childhood comfort food has morphed into a more sophisticated version of the original there is always two constants, a bone and yellow split peas.

In Toronto, in January, when the weather is not just bone chilling, it freezes the hairs in your nostrils and renders your fingers numb I restore my spirit and warm my bones with split pea soup. Just the smell of it simmering on the stove is reassuring and the first spoonful has the power to comfort me.

Pea Soup Recipe