The Mirror Crack’d and the Onions Cried

Hello, friend.

Now that life in my kitchen has returned to something resembling normal—haunted but no longer dusty—we’re back to feeling fabulously spooky…and hungry.

As promised, this week we made onion soup. And to the person who insists on calling it French onion soup—NO SOUP FOR YOU (to quote the Soup Nazi). This is Onion Soup Les Halles (Les Halles, p. 45)

And it’s not like any onion soup I’ve ever had.

It’s better. So much better.

I’ve made onion soup before. It’s always a bit of a workout—lots of onions, lots of stirring, lots of praying they don’t burn.

This version called for eight large onions. So I bought eight large onions. Peeled them, trimmed the roots, and sliced the fragrant orbs on my mandolin—the only tool that keeps the slices thin and even enough to cook properly.

Stirring that mountain of onions was no small task. They were heavy, they were juicy, and no matter how long I cooked them, they kept releasing more liquid. After twenty minutes, the recipe said they should be caramelized. Instead, I had six pounds of onions and an inch of stubborn liquid at the bottom of the pot. Defying physics. Refusing to evaporate.

In the end, I ladled out liquid by the spoonful, terrified the whole mess was going to collapse into mush. Only then did the browning begin.

A note to anyone attempting this recipe: tongs work better than a spatula when wrestling a half-ton of onions. My neck ached from leaning over the pot, so I glared at the ghost.

“Twenty minutes, my ass,” I said.

He just shrugged. Since the ceiling cave-in, he’s been moody—muttering things like, “This kitchen isn’t a safe place.”

I remind him he can’t get hurt.
“But you can,” he says.

True. One ceiling collapse and we’re soggy toast. But I’m trying not to think about that. Life, like soup, is meant to be consumed.

At some point in the onion chaos, I remembered the chicken stock was still in the freezer. When I opened the door, two jars sat waiting. One was fine. The other looked like it had been in a car accident—glass bowed outward, split like an ice sculpture in mid-explosion.

“The mirror crack’d from side to side,” the ghost intoned in his best spooky voice.

“So now we’re quoting Tennyson?” I asked. “There’s not a curse on me…is there?”

He shrugged again. “Unlikely.”

Unlikely is not the same as no. But there wasn’t time to worry—the onions were finally turning that deep caramel brown. Time for the balsamic vinegar and port wine.

Except I didn’t have port wine. This is Utah—we’re lucky if the grocery store carries cooking sherry. But I did have Marsala cooking wine. Cousins, really. Port is Portuguese, Marsala Sicilian. Both fortified, both friendly with onions.

When the vinegar and wine hit the pan, the aroma was intoxicating. Next came the chicken stock (strained, just in case any rogue glass survived the thaw). Then bacon cubes—yes, bacon in onion soup—and a bouquet garni of thyme, parsley, and bay leaf. Salt, pepper. A 45-minute simmer.

Taste. Roll eyes. Make yummy noises. Rinse spoon. Taste again. Make louder yummy noises.

Finally, ladle into crocks. Top with baguette slices and a fistful of Gruyère. Broil until molten. Then shove it back under the broiler until the cheese blisters, because life is too short for half-melted cheese.

Or, as Anthony wrote:

By now it’s clear: Anthony was a master of broth. His soups aren’t just recipes—they’re deep wells of flavor. The onions here are good, but the dark, rich liquid beneath? Mind-blowing.

The book says this recipe serves eight. Maybe—if you have tiny crocks and a lot of willpower. But realistically? A bigger crock and fewer servings feels more honest.

What’s next week’s menu? Not sure yet. But I’ve got my eye on Soupe au Vin—Wine Soup, made with an entire bottle of Bordeaux, bacon, and leeks. Curious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

In the meantime, I’m craving ramen again. I stumbled across a video of Chef Park, a Korean Michelin-star chef cooking in Milan, making his favorite version of instant ramen. Anthony would have loved it. So I promised the ghost we’d make it. Stay tuned.