roasted root

I know you won't believe me once you see this neatly typed recipe on my secret bag of root vegetables, but I actually had the idea to make root vegetable soup before I even got the veggies. I still had a butternut squash from the week before, and I wanted to diversify its rich flavor with some other stuff. Then, when I got my delivery (which was all mine because Anne was in China for the past few weeks), I saw this adorable little crumply brown bag with this note. Who knew what would be inside?

Just like I wouldn't want to know the sex of my baby if I were to ever be pregnant with one, I didn't want to know the sex of my vegetables until the day I made the soup. It was kind of like an Iron Chef challenge. Madeleine watched me intently from the side of the counter, rolling her eyes and her body simultaneously.



As I tore open the staple, this is what I saw:



I got to work slicing and tossing with olive oil. Popped the assortment in the oven for 30 minutes at 375.

Meanwhile, I started chopping a mirepoix of sorts. Sans carrots for the time being.



I fried 3 slices of the best bacon I've ever had. Once the fat was rendered, I added a little bit of olive oil and one chopped onion and a few ribs of celery. I also added a few chopped cloves of garlic and a sliced fuji apple.



Burnt my fingers again peeling the hot turnips (purple and white) and butternut squash, as well as the loner potato. Add them to the mix and covered with chicken broth. Last, I added a bunch of fresh sage, salt and pepper, and some of my fresh honey from the farm.



I paused for a moment to write a note to Santa asking for an immersion blender, and then transfered the mixture to a blender. Back to the pot to simmer and then topped with a swirl of cream and a sprinkling of crispy bacon from before.



The result was hearty, more savory than sweet, but with hints of the butternut and honey beneath the complex flavors of the turnips and potato.



For dessert, I had a bath and some Haagen Daaz peach sorbet. What a perfect meal.