The Broth That Carried Us Through

Just over a year ago, I found myself at a point where one naturally begins to take stock of life. I had just turned sixty. I stood in front of the mirror and entered into an inner dialogue about small stones of gratitude.

For what we have.

For what might, someday in some undefined future, still be improved.

And for what must be changed without delay. The things that cannot wait.

So… what do we have here?

Overall, things are good. A wonderful family. A great husband. My business is doing well. My health is reasonably fine. And yet… how did I end up carrying this much extra weight?

Me a chef with a near-obsession with healthy eating. I had absorbed dietary theories for years, like a sponge. Many of those approaches became part of my family’s everyday life for a long time. So why were we all overweight? Why did every scale seem “broken”?

These thoughts kept circling in my head. And that was the moment I decided to try LCHF. At the time, it felt like a radical step, full of restrictions and sacrifice.

The very idea of weighing ingredients, counting, and checking ratios of protein to fat and carbohydrates made me feel physically unwell. I could feel my body stiffen, slipping into a defensive posture. Then came the thought: perhaps, for now, it would be enough to remove the main carbohydrates.

But how does one live without bread and beloved pasta?

Small steps.

It was the same method that had helped me quit smoking years ago.

The first challenge turned out to be both national and deeply familial.

In the tradition of my region and therefore in the tradition of my family the most important dish had always been broth. Sunday broth, served with homemade noodles. The smell of broth simmering from early morning has always signalled, in Polish homes, that the family was complete and that lunch would be a sacred, ritual meal.

At this point, I could linger longer over broth. I could discuss its history, its regional variations, its role as medicine. But instead, I will simply say how to prepare it so that it becomes true nourishment something that, during the first weeks of our transition to a low-carbohydrate way of eating, helped carry us through.

Broth is a true soup of strength. Some say it is merely a stock made of meat and vegetables. I say: it is only that and everything more.

Because this stock is a long, slow ritual. Something that has held families together for generations, restored strength after long illness, and opened the world of soups and sauces by becoming their base. In every home, it tastes slightly different. Every pair of hands brings its own energy, its own intention, its own needs.

And that was the moment when broth ceased to be just tradition.

It became a tool.

This broth does not come from tables or precise measurements. It comes from time, patience and good ingredients. I always make it in a large pot one that will last not only for Sunday lunch, but for several days beyond.

I place the pot over high heat until it reaches a boil. Then I reduce the heat to an absolute minimum. Broth must not boil vigorously. It should whisper. That is how it stays clear.

This is when I begin adding the ingredients, slowly, one by one.

Some of them are always there. The first and most important is a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. There are always carrots, parsley root, celery and onion.

I char the onion separately, directly over the flame, until the skin darkens and releases a deep, smoky aroma. That scent has signalled Sunday lunch since my childhood. Only then does the onion go into the pot.

Next come leek and celery stalks.

A thin slice of ginger and ginseng.

A clove of garlic.

Two or three small cherry tomatoes, whole they deepen the umami.

Then the spices, each added with intention.

Bay leaf.

Allspice.

A pinch of nigella seeds and caraway.

A touch of turmeric.

Sometimes cardamom.

A single delicate flake of star anise, when I feel like adding a hint of Chinese character.

Peppercorns Sichuan, in my kitchen.

Depending on the season and what I have at hand, I may also add leaves:

ribwort plantain,

nettle,

blackcurrant,

lovage fresh or dried.

Once everything is in the pot, a bunch of fresh parsley goes on top. Always.

The broth cooks slowly, without haste.

After about two hours, I season it with a spoonful of good rock salt. Not earlier. The flavour needs time to settle.

I do not remove the fat.

It carries warmth and satiety.

The broth is ready when it ceases to be just stock and becomes nourishment.

And yet, in this broth story, one important element was missing the Sunday noodles.

It turned out that drinking a mug or bowl of broth alone felt incomplete. The ritual was not fulfilled. The firm strands of noodles were absent.

Finding a suitable substitute was not easy, I admit. But after several attempts, we succeeded.

Zucchini saved us along with a good julienne peeler. I peel the zucchini first: partly because noodles should not be green, and partly to avoid pesticides and fungicides. I cut the strands until I reach the seeds.

The zucchini “noodles” are blanched for one minute in boiling water, then rinsed with cold water.

They do a remarkably good job of pretending to be pasta.