SEVERAL years ago, while flipping through a Junior League cookbook, I came across a recipe for ham bone soup. The book, a vintage specimen passed down by a friend of my mother’s, was one of those tattered spiral-bound volumes you see at yard sales, chock full of fuss-free recipes that people actually cooked every day.
But over the ensuing years, all the hams I baked were boneless. No bone, no soup.
Finally, I asked my butcher for one instead, even though it felt like cheating. The butcher, who presented me with a Neolithic-size bone, was nice enough to cut it into pieces with his band saw so it would fit into my soup pot.
Wanting to maintain the spirit of the Junior League recipe, I kept things straightforward once I got home. I stuck the bone into the pot with some onions (for a sweet aromatic note), shredded cabbage and carrots (to add vegetables and more layers of flavor), and cooked beans (for plush bites of contrasting texture). I let the whole thing simmer for a good chunk of the afternoon.
The windows steamed up and the house smelled mouthwateringly like smoked meat.
As the liquid cooked, it got thicker and glossier. And its fragrance became even more intensely porky. I dipped a spoon into the pot. This soup was silkier and richer than most hammy soups I’ve made, including ones with ham hocks and bacon, and the broth had a lot more body.
Better yet, the cabbage shreds had collapsed and somehow magically transformed from mere vegetables into something akin to soft, melting morsels of cheese.
That’s when I realized what had happened. The marrow from the bone had leaked out, imbuing everything with its fatty, brawny goodness — especially the watery cabbage. Though the flavor was terrific, the color was a bit blah, so I tossed in some torn-up kale to add some green.
In my bowl, I added a few dashes of hot sauce to give everything a kick. Then I ate it up, glad I had cheated to get my ham bone, and very ready to do it again.
