For years, soup became the unspoken constant in our lives, carrying us through my husband’s battle with brain cancer, his passing, and the journey that followed. It was more than just a meal—it was a source of comfort, a symbol of resilience, and a reminder of the love that bound us together.

It all began on a quiet Monday evening in March 2018. I had just finished work and was at home preparing dinner when my husband, Stephen, called. “What’s for dinner?” he asked. I told him it would be lentil soup with goat cheese salad and sweet potatoes. It was a familiar recipe, one that had been a favorite of our daughter Ava-Rose, who was home from college for spring break.

Stephen sounded normal, as if it were any other day. But what he didn’t tell me was that he had already been to the emergency room earlier that day. He had been feeling unsteady on his feet and couldn’t get an appointment with his doctor. I had encouraged him to go to the hospital, and now he was waiting for test results. He didn’t seem too concerned, but I wasn’t worried either—until the call came that changed everything.

When I finally heard from him, it was clear something was wrong. He asked me to come to the hospital because he couldn’t drive himself home. The doctors confirmed what we feared: a mass on his brain, a low-grade astrocytoma located on the brain stem—the worst possible location. The diagnosis was devastating. We had no idea what the future held, but we knew we had to face it together.

That night, the soup I had prepared sat untouched on the stove. No one had an appetite, and the next morning, it was thrown away along with the shriveled potatoes. It was the first of many losses, but also the beginning of a new chapter in which soup would become a central part of our healing process.

After two surgeries and a long road of treatment, we returned home, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. Friends and neighbors brought us meals, but none of us felt hungry. Over time, I began cooking again, focusing on simple, comforting soups. I made minestrone with homemade stock, green lentil soup, and Moroccan red lentil soup with saffron. These dishes became a source of solace, especially as Stephen developed dysphagia, making solid food difficult to eat.

My love for soup dates back to my traditional Jewish upbringing in Manchester, England, where my mother would make chicken soup with noodles on Friday nights. As we raised our daughters in Santa Monica, we created our own traditions, including family dinners around the kitchen island. Stephen, who was always the one taking care of others, now relied on us for support, guidance, and care.

Throughout this time, I continued working as a journalist, writing articles between his medical appointments. Ava often helped out, and we had a wonderful caregiver named Ana, along with support from our friend Joanna, a nurse who would stay for dinner. Soup was always at the center of our meals, offering both nourishment and a sense of routine.

Our soups evolved with the seasons: asparagus in the summer, root vegetables in the winter. Ava even made black bean soup with rosemary from the garden that Stephen had planted. When he came home from the hospital, the first thing he did was water the garden, a small act that reminded us of the life we were still fighting for.

We spent much of our time at home, surrounded by loved ones. Our social life revolved around our house, with visits from family and friends. Nancy, a close family friend, came every weekend. My mother and best friend Sarah-Jane visited from England. Stephen’s brother, Joe, and sister-in-law, Karen, drove across the country from Philadelphia. Karen, a former nurse, helped with caregiving and cooking, while Joe played the guitar and brought laughter to our days.

One night, we even skipped soup and had dessert for dinner—a fruit tart, brownies, and banana cream pie. It wasn’t perfect, but the joy of being together made it worthwhile.

As Stephen’s condition worsened, our home became a makeshift hospital. By 2020, during the height of the pandemic, we were already living in isolation. Every room was filled with medical supplies, and a whiteboard in the bedroom tracked appointments and medications.

There were moments of frustration and grief. One evening, Stephen spilled his soup, and I lost my temper, feeling guilty afterward. But he reassured me, saying, “It’s okay,” and that moment reminded me of the strength and love we shared.

Eventually, Stephen was on a feeding tube, hooked up to oxygen, and unable to join us for meals. Yet, even in those final days, I could feel his presence, hearing our chatter and knowing he was still with us.

On October 8, 2021, I woke up early to make red lentil soup, the same soup that had sat untouched on the night of his diagnosis. I settled down to do some work, unaware of what was coming. At 3 p.m., Chace called me into the garden, where she was sitting with Stephen in his wheelchair, reading to him. “Daddy’s stopped breathing,” she said. The soup was still on the stove the next morning.

In the years since his passing, I thought I’d never enjoy cooking again. But five years later, my daughters and I still love making soup. We experiment with different ingredients, soaking beans overnight and cooking them for hours, adding herbs and water. Our latest obsession is Good Mother Stallard Beans cooked in miso broth.

When I asked the girls why they enjoy it so much, they gave me the most profound answers. “I love soup,” said Ava. “You can take whatever you have in, mix it together, give everything time, and it creates something new, comforting, and nourishing.” “Soup is like life,” said Chace. “It becomes deeper, more interesting, and more complex the more wonky, challenging, and ostensibly difficult or ‘bad’ it gets, like the discarded parts of the chicken. Mixed together, it creates a richer experience.”

We sit around the table, a photo of Stephen above the piano behind us, continuing the tradition that has carried us through the hardest times. Soup, like life, is about transformation. It takes what seems broken and turns it into something meaningful, something that nourishes the soul.