The magic of chicken soup

It's that time of year. The festival of matzah balls. The time for kneidlach to shine. But they are unable to shine on their own which means one thing, and one thing only, we need chicken soup, and lots of it. Some of us are envious of those who have already made their soup and have it in the freezer. Others are - as I write and probably as you read - standing in front of the stove, peering into a huge pot of fragrant, steaming, simmering chicken soup-in-the-making. Some of us are ordering in.

It got me thinking about our chicken soup. Jewish style chicken soup. We - as a people - have probably been making it for 500 years, give or take. I like to have it in the freezer at any time. Someone’s sick? Drop in some soup. Someone’s sad? Drop in some soup. Someone’s stressed? You get it. But how did chicken soup achieve this cult status as a fix-all? Why the hype? Is it based on fact or fiction? Is it really a cure-all?

I can’t recall a time when chicken soup was not in my life. Golden, clear soup with an abundance of flavour. One sip of a good soup and one can swoon. It’s everything. But it’s not just the chicken. It’s the combination of sweetness from carrot and onion, herbiness from celery and parsley, brightness from dill and rich umami from the bones and fat. Slow cooked and seasoned well. My mum did make chicken soup but it was probably my Aunty Myrna’s I remember the most. She used kosher chicken, lending a deeper and more robust flavour - largely because of the salting in the koshering process.

I ate soup with matzah balls at Pesach, with kreplach (Jewish-style meat ravioli) whenever my mum could source them and with lokshen (long, thin noodles) the rest of the year. My motivation for faking a sickie during the school years? Mum’s chicken soup loaded with white rice. Myrna served hers with eyelach, a Jewish delicacy from the old world. Eyelach are unborn chicken eggs found inside chickens before being laid. They look like egg yolks of varying sizes which are boiled in the soup. I remember them as eggy and rubbery and my family was completely divided as to their deliciousness. I’m not sure if I have nostalgic cravings for those little almost-bouncy yolks or just for Myrna’s cooking.

When I left home and moved to Sydney I had to learn how to make my own soup. I used my mother’s and my sister’s recipes at first. Over the Monday Morning Cooking Club years, we collected many more and I have ended up with the simplest of all. Inspired by Lena at the Balaclava Deli in Melbourne, I now use chicken frames, legs and wings with a little carrot, onion, parsley and dill. Salt, pepper and that is it.

The secret to clear (as opposed to cloudy) soup is to skim. The first step is to bring the chicken pieces and (just the right amount of) water to the boil and then - with a skimmer or slotted spoon - remove the sludge that has risen to the top. Aunty Myrna also taught me to keep the onion skin on, it apparently adds colour. After skimming, throw in the veggies, herbs and seasoning and let it simmer for about two hours. Cool a little, strain and that’s it. If you don’t like the layer of fat that comes with the soup, you need to refrigerate it overnight; the fat will set on the top and you can easily remove it. Over the years I have come to appreciate a little slick of chicken fat in the soup, it adds a unique richness and velvety mouthfeel.

Chicken soup has the reputation of Jewish penicillin. I accept that without a doubt. It cures many ailments, it can help repair a broken heart and it definitely soothes the soul. The collagen, gelatin and nutrients from the slow cooking for the bones is key but it’s the rich heritage and love inherent in each bite that truly makes the soup special. You know, that moment when you take a sip, close your eyes and just feel the history.

I do believe it cures many ills but, the question is, when chicken soup is also the base for many other culturally iconic dishes, does it carry the same magical medicinal properties? Think of Chinese chicken wonton and noodle soup, Vietnamese chicken pho or American chicken dumpling soup. Three of my absolute favourites. Imagine the first sip of broth or that first slurp of noodles—does it feel like it's healing not just your body, but your soul too? I believe it does. It’s the warmth, the richness and saltiness, combined with the cultural rituals and emotional connections, that make these dishes so essential. They carry a sense of being cared for, like a big hug that nourishes both the body and the spirit.

Maybe the reason we’re so drawn to our Jewish-style chicken soup is because it carries with it the weight of generations of tradition. It’s a dish that feels both timeless and deeply personal. Simple in its ingredients—just five in mine —and easy to make in one giant soup pot, yet it delivers more flavour and richness than you’d expect. It’s the simplest of things that, somehow, offers so much more than it suggests.

After Pesach this year, maybe it’s time to spread our (chicken) wings. I still dream of the Chicken Soup with Dumplings I fell in love with in Raleigh, North Carolina in 2012 - rich soup, soft chicken meat and thick strips of slippery noodles which the Americans call dumplings. I still crave Chinese wonton and noodle soup—the delicate, meaty parcels wrapped in silky dough, paired with long, slurp-worthy egg noodles, each bite accented with a burst of fresh green shallots. My recent favourite is Vietnamese pho, so much so that I created a recipe that included the best flavour of a Jewish chicken soup combined with the best elements of a pho: Jewish Chicken Soup Pho.

Maybe it is time to shake up our chicken soup, remembering – always - that it’s the original one we keep coming back to.