Chickpea Tortilla Soup

Mama got COVID. The call came on a Tuesday at 3 PM. Pierre's voice, which I almost didn't recognize because Pierre never calls and when he does, his voice is smaller on the phone than in person. "Tommy. Mama's sick." Two words and the world cracked open.

She had a cough. A fever. She tested positive on Monday. She's sixty-four, she's alone in the cottage, and the virus is in her lungs. Pierre drove her to the hospital in Thibodaux — they kept her overnight for observation, gave her oxygen, sent her home. "Mild case," the doctor said. Mild. The word "mild" when applied to your mother and a virus that's killing thousands of people is the cruelest word in the English language. Mild. As if mild means safe. As if mild means the worry stops. It doesn't. The worry doesn't stop. The worry is the water at 2 AM and I can hear it again, and this time it's not rain, it's a cough, and the cough is in Thibodaux and I can't go there.

I couldn't visit. The rules. The quarantine. The risk of bringing the virus or getting it. I called every day. Three times a day. She sounded tired but coherent. She coughed and said, "It's nothing, bébé." It's nothing. The same words she said about the cottage flood. The same words she says about everything that terrifies me — it's nothing. And maybe it was nothing. Maybe the mild case was mild and the sixty-four-year-old woman on the bayou fought the virus the way she fights everything: with stubbornness and cayenne and the accumulated immunity of a life lived close to the dirt.

I made chicken soup. I made it and I couldn't bring it to her and the helplessness of making soup for a sick mother you can't reach is a specific kind of pain that I hope you never know. I froze the soup. I'll bring it when I can. The soup will wait. The love will wait. The driving-to-Thibodaux will happen and I'll walk through the screen door and I'll heat the soup and she'll eat it and say it needs cayenne and she'll be fine. She'll be fine. She has to be fine.

The soup I actually made that week was a chicken soup, but the recipe I keep coming back to—the one I’ve made in the months since, the one that holds the same feeling—is this chickpea tortilla soup. It has the same weight, the same warmth, the same bold kick of spice that Mama would approve of, and it freezes beautifully, which matters when you’re making food for someone you can’t reach yet. I make it now and I think of that pot sitting in my freezer in New Orleans, waiting. This one waits too, if it needs to. That’s the whole point.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 50 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 jalapeño, seeded and minced
1 red bell pepper, diced
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons chili powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1 can (14.5 oz) fire-roasted diced tomatoes
2 cans (15 oz each) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
4 cups vegetable broth
1 cup frozen or fresh corn kernels
Juice of 1 lime
Salt and black pepper to taste
6 small corn tortillas, cut into thin strips
2 tablespoons neutral oil (for frying tortilla strips)
Fresh cilantro, sour cream, shredded cheese, and avocado slices for serving

Instructions

Crisp the tortilla strips. Heat neutral oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add tortilla strips in batches and fry 2–3 minutes, turning once, until golden and crisp. Transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate and season lightly with salt. Set aside.
Build the base. In a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook 4–5 minutes until softened. Add garlic, jalapeño, and bell pepper and cook another 3 minutes.
Bloom the spices. Stir in cumin, chili powder, smoked paprika, and cayenne. Cook 1 minute, stirring constantly, until fragrant.
Add the liquids and beans. Pour in the fire-roasted tomatoes and vegetable broth. Add chickpeas and corn. Stir to combine and bring to a boil.
Simmer. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer uncovered for 20–25 minutes, until the broth has deepened in color and the chickpeas are very tender.
Finish and adjust. Squeeze in lime juice and season with salt and pepper. Taste and add more cayenne if you need it—and you might.
Serve or freeze. Ladle into bowls and top with crispy tortilla strips, cilantro, a spoonful of sour cream, shredded cheese, and avocado. To freeze: cool completely, store in airtight containers without toppings for up to 3 months. Reheat gently on the stovetop and add fresh toppings when serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chickpea Tortilla Soup — The Pot I Made and Couldn’t Bring Her