It began, like many good things do, with a simple idea and a long winter ahead. Six years ago, my friend Liz proposed the kind of plan that sounds almost too humble to make a lasting impact: “What if we started a soup group?”
The concept was simple — we’d take turns hosting cozy soup nights in our homes every month or so. No pressure. No elaborate menus or dress codes. Just soup, friends, and a break from the grey monotony of the season.
We said yes immediately. Maybe it was the appeal of a warm kitchen in cold weather, or maybe we were all just longing for something steady, something dependable. That first night, we filled bowls with steaming lentil soup and passed around crusty bread, and we knew instantly: this was going to be more than just soup.
And it was.
The soup group stretched beyond winter, through spring’s rain and summer’s long days. We met through birthdays and breakups, through career changes and parenting chaos. One month, someone would bring a silky leek and potato soup. Another month, it would be spicy chili or comforting tomato basil. Every bowl felt like a gift — not just of food, but of time, effort, and care.
There was no formal agenda. We’d show up, kick off our shoes, settle into someone’s kitchen or living room, and just talk. Sometimes we dissected the latest book someone had read. Sometimes we offered each other career advice. Sometimes we just gossiped or shared parenting wins and fails. The conversation flowed as naturally as the wine or tea we sipped. It was, in many ways, a quiet ritual — a reminder that even when everything else felt chaotic, we could count on this gathering.
Last week, we met at Linsey’s house. She greeted us with a pot of tortilla soup so rich and flavorful that we could barely focus on anything else for the first few bites. It was the kind of soup that stops you in your tracks — a little spicy, a little tangy, full of warmth. We asked her for the recipe, but in true soup group fashion, it wasn’t a recipe so much as a feeling, a rhythm.
Here’s her “non-recipe,” passed along with a shrug and a grin:
“Sauté chopped carrots and onions in olive oil. Season like you would for tacos — taco seasoning or your favorite spice blend. Add chunks of chicken breast and cook until browned. Pour in bone broth, a couple cans of fire-roasted diced tomatoes, and some green chilies. Let it all simmer until your kitchen smells incredible. Finish with lime juice and a spoonful of sour cream stirred in. Then serve with whatever toppings you’ve got: avocado, shredded cheese, cilantro, lime wedges, tortilla chips, black beans, scallions, corn… you can’t go wrong.”
And she was right — you couldn’t. Each of us made our bowls our own, ladling in extra beans or piling on chips, and it felt like building something together, even in a small way.
Of course, we left that night with more than full stomachs. We left with a handful of new book titles, a couple of beauty recs (someone had on the dreamiest shell-pink nail polish), and a shared sense of having been seen. That’s the real magic of soup group — the soup is lovely, but it’s what bubbles up around it that matters most.
In a world that feels increasingly fast-paced and fragmented, the slow, steady rhythm of gathering in someone’s home for a homemade meal feels almost radical. There’s no algorithm here. No scrolling. Just the hum of conversation, the clink of spoons against ceramic, the deep exhale of being with people who’ve seen you through seasons.
Soup group has become, for me, a kind of heartbeat — subtle but essential. Maybe it’s like what church feels like for some, not in doctrine but in structure: a regular gathering of familiar faces, an anchor in the week or month. It doesn’t matter what soup we’re eating. It matters that we keep showing up.
And you don’t need a master plan to start something like this. You just need a few willing friends and a pot. Maybe you’ll serve soup, or maybe something else entirely — a book club, a board game night, a walking group. The specifics don’t matter as much as the intention: to make space for connection in a world that often forgets how much we need it.
So here’s to tortilla soup and shared stories. To mismatched mugs and laughter spilling across kitchen counters. To the way something as simple as simmering broth can hold a roomful of lives, layered and different, and make them feel whole.
Would you host a soup group? I hope you do. And if it’s messy or irregular or built around a non-recipe, even better. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that consistency and warmth — not perfection — are the real ingredients we crave.
