Written by Duncan Holmes | 07 September 2011

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The Scoop
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For the longest time, I believed my mom’s story about nail soup. Maybe still do. I mean, why not? It rang with details of authenticity, even if every time she told it, the notes of taste, texture and flavour would bubble dreamily from hot to cold, sweet to sour, brothy to big — and more. Why? Because that was the magic of always anything-and-everything delicious nail soup.

She told me that she learned about nail soup one summer Monday when she was hanging sheets on a backyard line, locking them in place with big wooden pegs, as nought but a soft zephyr blew in from the south. Enough to dry sheets, towels and knickers in a minute.

As sometimes happens in small country towns, where things used to be laid back and easy, a stranger came into the yard that Monday, a friendly-faced, hard-done-by elderly gentleman who, after extending compliments to mother and her wash, asked if he might exchange an hour of work around the garden for a lunch — nothing more than a bowl of soup. And because things rarely went awry in those small country towns, she thought that was a pretty good offer, and gave him a shovel.
He smiled and thanked her, but before he began, he dipped his hand into a pocket, and produced a shiny four-inch nail. “This,” he said, “is a magic nail. And with it, I can make the finest soup you’ve ever tasted ... If you could take it inside and cover it in a pot filled with six cups of water, I’d be most grateful.”

Mother took the nail and filled the pot with water, and the stranger went to work. Fifteen minutes later, he called into the kitchen: “Missus. Would you happen to have a nice big onion you could cut up and throw into the pot? It will make the magic happen even better. And a carrot or two will help. So will a leg or diced breast of chicken. Salt and pepper too. And maybe a bay leaf, and some fresh herbs right from the garden. Turn on the heat under the pot and let it boil away while you finish hanging the washing.”

And all the while, the stranger dug away in the garden.

As my mother told it, there were many other things that went into the nail soup that washday Monday. Special seasonings from the back of the cupboard, a splash or two of white wine, some soy, even fresh noodles. They all bubbled together, the four-inch nail clanking away against the bottom of the pot.

An hour later, the stranger looked at the newly dug garden, then at his watch. “Reckon the soup’s ready,” he said. As my mother told it, he ate two big bowls of nail soup, along with four slices of bread loaded with butter. When he had finished, he thanked her, and said: “Now I’ll be on my way. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take my nail.”

As she told it, by the time she had taken the wash from the line and folded it all fresh-smelling and nice into her wicker basket, the stranger had gone. Down the hill, around the corner by the church, and away on the soft summer wind.