What? You've never heard of Boer War soup?

Why I was raised on the stuff and we just believed that all the other kids were forced to eat it. I think Dad believed it too, 'cause he never once questioned Mom about it, especially when she said something about 'setting a good example'.

The ingredients for the soup are varied and often secret. I don't know how many times we'd ask Mom what went into the soup and she'd say "none of your business". Close as I can remember, she kept a big coffee can in the fridge and all the leftovers went into it. That might include table scraps, out-of-date anything, baking too stale to take to the women's group at the church, fruit and veggie peelings, and always the morning porridge that got stuck to the bottom of the pot.

Now this sounds a little unappetizing to say the least, but combined with the right spices and a really good dose of Worcestershire sauce it was actually very nourishing. I doubt very much that there were any chemicals, preservatives or artificial coloring in that soup, which must have made her an eco friendly cook well before her time.

Looking back, I think Mom must have called it Boer War soup due to its overactive nature during the cooking process. Maybe it was the combination of the fermenting ingredients and the aluminium pressure cooker? I don't know for sure, but once that soup hit the boiling point and the steam pushed the pop-out button screaming full blast, there was a very short window of action before all hell broke loose. The pot just couldn't stand the pressure for long, and that resulted in the lid blowing off and straight up. You guessed it - the soup went straight up too and hit the ceiling. No kidding and a new sense of childhood wonderment.

Boer War soup is pretty thick, so some of it would fall back down on the floor, but a lot of it just sort of hung there. To make the moment even more jarring, the explosion always started the same chain reaction. Our stove was the old kind that had legs, which left a space of about 12" underneath it. That was very useful for drying things like wet shoes, or for warming things, like our dog. Sarge, (yes, the original) loved to flatten out and snooze under the stove, and if it wasn't too hot I'd snuggle up next to him and snooze too.

But darn it every time the lid blew off the soup Sarge would jump up, full body against the bottom of the hot stove and let out a howl. That scared me to the point where I'd wake up hit my head and we'd howl together while we scrambled to get out from under the stove. Mom was howling too, and shouting something I can't repeat.

Worst of all, when we came back in for supper that night, Dad would say, "What's for supper?"  And, she'd say "None of your business!"

In the past I've offered the recipe for my story d'jour, but I think I'll pass on this one. We all survived, and were pretty much healthy kids. Just one sister developed a tic, but I love her anyway. To this day I enjoy making soup for myself, but if I'm in someone else's kitchen you'll catch me taking a sceptical and cautious peak under the lid!

Childhood memories. Don't you love'm.