Potiron-chatâigne soup

The only way to try this soup is to cut up the potiron and boil and clean the chatâigne, so that's what I did this morning. Juliette calls it a Labor of Love, and I'll grant that there is a measure of commitment involved, and giving. But daunting as the task seems at the outset, it is soon accomplished, and we have a marvelous soup bubbling away while we watch the pensées on the front balcony dancing in the cold tramontagne and talk about how close winter is and the turning of the year.

The plant that people around here call le potiron is, in fact, its cousin, la citrouille. What you usually see in the markets is half of one of these huge pumpkin-shaped monsters, from which the vendor will slice you as large a piece as you want. The skin is thin but harder than you would think. With a little practice, though, I find that it comes off easily with a vegetable slicer, and I cut the orange-red flesh into spoon-sized bits.

Meanwhile, Juliette stirs a chopped onion into some olive oil in the bottom of a large sauce pan. The chunks of potiron (we decided to keep using the term everybody around here uses instead of the Correct One) go in next. Juliette puts the lid on the pot and sets the burner to the lowest possible temperature. When the mixture begins to soften and liquify, she returns and adds a large tablespoon of miso and other spices. The miso adds a salty taste (we keep salt intake to a minimum), besides being a good source of protein.