Tomato soup took me to Katherine Mansfield’s Bliss. The story chronicles a day in the life of Bertha Young as she prepares for, and hosts, a dinner party. Among the invited guests is Berth’s new ‘find’, the sleek and silvery Miss Fulton.

‘What was there in the touch of that cool arm that could fan—start blazing—the fire of bliss that Bertha did not know what to do with?
   Miss Fulton did not look at her … But Bertha knew, suddenly, as if the longest, most intimate look had passed between them—as if they had said to each other: “You too?”—that Pearl Fulton, stirring the beautiful red soup in the grey plate, was feeling just what she was feeling.’

Food permeates Katherine Mansfield’s writing. It’s everywhere—in her notebooks, in her correspondence and in her published prose. If you’re looking for some literary nourishment, there’s a gloriously detailed essay Eating and Reading with Katherine Mansfield by Aimée Gasston that was published earlier this year in the ever wonderful Public Domain Review.

Later in the story, another guest, an up-and-coming poet, wants to show Bertha a verse that opens with the line: Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?

There are many kinds of hunger. While Bertha watches her husband and Miss Fulton—the woman she’s flirted with all evening—arrange a secret assignation, the poet continues:

‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup? It’s so deeply true, don’t you feel? Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal.’

I don’t know about eternal but tomato soup is one of my standby dishes. Lots of fragrant fresh tomatoes, a small carrot, an onion, a stick of celery, a clove or two of garlic and a red capsicum. Spice and/or herb to taste. Perfect for a winter supper with grilled cheese on toast.

Moving on

My question here is not why must it always be tomato soup, but why is soup of the day always pumpkin?