Forgive the tweeness of the title, but this is a soup of such sunny, mood-enhancing yellowness that it overcomes even the most pervasively innate cynicism. To eat this is to feel cheered; even cooking it gives me a lift. It’s incredibly easy to make, but that’s not the clincher. This golden broth, rice-thickened and studded with a confetti dice of yellow courgettes and sprightly with lemon is pure joy. You only have to see it to believe it. And not surprisingly in some Middle-Eastern cultures, it is believed, in Claudia Roden’s words, that ‘eating yellow foods will result in laughter and happiness’. This, then, is a yellow soup to banish the blues.
500g yellow courgettes (2 large)
zest and juice of 1 lemon
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 litre chicken stock
100g basmati rice
Maldon salt and pepper
Cut the courgettes – wash them by all means if you want, but don’t bother to peel them – into 5mm rings, and then finely dice them. Put them into a pan with the lemon zest and oil, stir to coat, then cook on a gentle heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they’ve slightly softened.
Stir in the turmeric and pour in the stock and lemon juice and then drop in the rice. And for the stock here, as usual I make up some bouillon concentrate with water; you could use vegetable stock if you prefer, but I love the mellow goldenness you get from chicken. Cook, uncovered, for 10–20 minutes, or just until the courgettes and rice are tender. Taste for seasoning. Leave to cool slightly before serving so that you eat the soup warm rather than hot.
Serves 4–6.
And I sometimes exploit all this marvellous yellowness by making, if this doesn’t sound too poncey, a carpaccio of zucchini gialli, yellow courgettes. Just use a vegetable peeler to shave off thin curling strips. You will probably have to lose the central seedy core, so I’d reckon on using about one courgette per person. Just lay the strips of courgette (and see them thus adorning quail) on a plate, spritz with lemon and a tiny drizzle of oil, a sprinkle of Maldon salt and feather, if you wish, with a few frondy straggles of fresh dill.