Tomato soup

In the summer light of 1970s Aotearoa, time felt slower, softer, endless. The days smelled of cut grass, petrol, and sun-warmed tomatoes. The world was smaller, but it seemed full.

Every summer, Mum and her friend Lis would head “up the line” to Ōtaki, an hour north of Wellington. They’d pile into the old Valiant, windows down, cigarettes lit, music on the radio. State Highway 1 rolled out ahead of them, lined with farms and fruit stalls, their painted signs fading in the sun.

They called it “pick your own,” though for them it was more like a caper. I used to imagine them sneaking through rows of tomatoes and strawberries, giggling and whispering, their paper bags swelling faster than the farmers could count. They’d come home red-handed, literally, tomato juice on their arms, berry stains on their clothes, and laughter in their voices.

Lis went for berries for her jam. Mum hunted tomatoes for her soup. She said the best ones were the quiet ones, the ones that had stopped showing off. The trip wasn’t just about food; it was about freedom. Two women with an hour to themselves, chasing ripeness, gossip, and a bit of air that didn’t smell like kids or cooking.

When they came home, the car smelled like summer. Beans tangled with garlic stalks, raspberries leaking through paper bags, tomatoes warm from the sun. Lis would arrive first, calling through the screen door before she even knocked. That was my cue. Mum and I would drive the one minute down the road to Lis’s to swap boxes, gossip, and recipes that would never be written down.

Those afternoons felt huge to me, like something rare and secret was happening. The smell hit first when Mum carried the boxes inside. Warm tomatoes, damp soil, green beans, and that soft sweetness of fruit in paper. Lis would hand me a fistful of raspberries as a kind of payment. I’d eat them too fast, juice running down my hands, the taste bright and sharp. It meant jam season wasn’t far away, and Mum’s soup would soon follow.

The tomatoes would sit in bowls for days, softening in the sun. Mum was patient but fussy. She’d test them each morning, pressing her thumb into their skin, deciding which were ready. She’d say the best soup came from the ones that had stopped pretending. The ones that were honest.

When it was time, she’d start the ritual. The stockpot came down from the washhouse shelf, huge and silver, coated in dust and cobwebs. To me, it looked alive. That shelf was a jungle of old jars and spiders, and I’d stand barefoot on the cold linoleum praying nothing fell on me. Mum would grunt, drag the pot outside, hose it down, then clatter it onto the stove.

Radio Windy played in the background, the voice of Wellington’s southern wind. The weather report always said the same thing: “Fine and sunny, light southerly.” Then came the music. Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac.

The back door stayed open. The sound of cicadas and birds filled the kitchen. Mum lit a cigarette, poured a sherry, and pointed at the spice rack. “Grab me the oregano, love.” I’d hand it to her carefully, the little jar sticky with age. She always called oregano her secret ingredient, though everyone in the neighborhood probably knew.

She poured the tomatoes into the sink, running cold water over them. Then she lifted me up and sat me on the bench. She handed me one, still warm. I bit in. The skin broke under my teeth, sweet and metallic, juice running down my chin. She took it from my hand, took a bite, rolled her eyes, and muttered “yum.” It was the highest praise she could give anything.

One by one she washed the tomatoes, rubbing off the dirt, snapping away the stalks. Cigarette smoke curled through the kitchen. The air smelled like sunshine and soap. Duffy, the cat, sat under her chair pretending not to listen, twitching his tail whenever I got too close. He hated me, mostly because I existed. Mum’s voice carried through the steam. “A pinch of sugar,” she said. “Always. Tomatoes are fruit. You’ve got to remind them.” She said her dad used to give the kids halves of tomatoes sprinkled with sugar straight from the garden. “Said it brought out the sun.”

I’d sit on the floor building a speeder bike out of Lego that never looked quite right. The radio hummed. The onions hissed in the pan. The soup began to smell like life itself.

By late afternoon, the light through the window turned gold. The pot bubbled slow and deep. Around the edges, the tomato caught and caramelised. “That’s the good bit,” she’d say, scraping it in with a wooden spoon.

Then came the mincer. It lived up high, heavy and stained with last year’s seeds. She’d clamp it to the counter, scoop in the hot tomatoes, and start to crank. The sound filled the room. Metal on metal. What came out was smooth and red and beautiful. Mum would pour a Bacardi and Coke, light another cigarette, and grin.

The soup went into old Neapolitan ice cream tubs. Chocolate for me, strawberry for her, vanilla for no one. We’d fill each one to the top, wipe the rims clean, and line them up in the freezer. Some for friends. Some for later. All for love.

When she passed away back in 2021, I found one of those tubs buried in her freezer. The label had faded. It had been there for decades. I held it for a long time. I wanted to taste it again. To taste that time again. But I threw it.

There was regret, yes… but I soon realized, It was never about the soup. It was the smell of oregano. The cigarette burning in the ashtray. The sherry glass, half full. The sound of the mincer, the hum of the radio, and that long, golden light pouring through the back door on a late Saturday afternoon.