You Won’t Believe Who’s Making The World’s Best Matzo Ball Soup

Against all odds, the finished product. Image by Brianne Leary

By Brianne Leary March 27, 2017

About a week ago, my husband Chris and I came down with a hideous flu, reducing us to germ-riddled, whiney science projects. All I could think about was ordering a batch of the sure-fire cure: Jewish Penicillin from my local Upper West Side deli, Artie’s. At Artie’s, the broth is rich and so golden it almost hurts to look at it. And the matzo balls? The matzo balls are the size of Utah. That should do us for a day or two.

Okay, here’s the rub. I kissed my Manhattan life goodbye six years ago when I married my nutty Englishman, and I now live in the U.K. — on a small farm deep in the 16th-century Devon countryside.

The author and a lamb named Pie. Image by Shelly Tatro

There are no deli’s in Devon.

Thus, I was forced to fend for my Irish-Catholic-American citified self and make my own.

I Googled “best chicken soup recipe in the world.” Up popped Mitchell Davis’ story and recipe,which were published in the Forward.

Perfect. I scanned the ingredients, Chicken? Check. Davis prefers old hens — not a problem. Most of our hens are getting up there. (I call them Cougar Chicks.)

Nary a Jewish deli in sight. Image by Brianne Leary

Now, before you get your feathers in a duster about the dispatching of our hens, we have a rule on the farm: If we name ’em we don’t eat ’em. Consequently — much to Chris’s chagrin — I’ve named all the chickens, including the rooster. His name is Doodle Do.

Our oldest hen, Marilyn, is named after my much-married mother. Long story short…Marilyn is not a hen’s hen. She only hangs with the turkeys…all of which are stags (male). Refusing to lay her eggs in the chicken hutches, Marilyn lives life on the edge, risking visits from the fox, and perches her royal self in a lovely nest next to a daffodil patch. So far she’s been lucky.

Marilyn the hen was named for the author’s much-married mother. Image by Brianne Leary

OK…For the main ingredient, I would have to drag my sorry sick self to the village and buy a chicken. Kosher? Oy…I think not. My butcher, John May, specializes in pork. But he does have free-range, organic chicken, displayed next to the packaged gammon steaks (ham) and cheese.

Davis mentions that his fabulous Bubbe used ALL parts of the hen, including feet. I decided to pass on the feet.

Next: carrots, parsnips, dill… check, check, check. My husband grows them in our garden.

Onions…CHECK! We had a bumper onion crop this year.

Onions in abundance. Image by Brianne Leary

Celery and turnip meant a trip to Simmon’s, my village veg shop.

Star anise? In my spice drawer. That does it for the soup.

Onto the matzo balls. Eggs? Check. Thank you Marilyn!

Thank you, Marilyn! These will do nicely in the matzo balls. Image by Brianne Leary

Schmaltz? Check. Per instructions, I’d skim it off the soup. Kosher salt? Not gonna happen in any of my local markets. I’ll use an English sea salt called Malden — it’s fabulous. And matzo meal? Hmmm. I managed to find matzo itself but no meal. Back to Google: How to make Matzo Meal. Up popped the most famous of American bubbes… MARTHA STEWART!? Who knew?

I hoped to kill two birds with this magical soup: feel human again and achieve the brilliantly clear golden broth that has eluded me…well…all my cooking life. Maybe it’s genetic, but I was determined to give it a try.

Onto the cooking. I poured COLD water over the chopped chicken and veggies and was instructed to quickly bring it to a rapid boil. Flag on the play. On my Flintstonian stove, an ancient cooking and heating appliance called a Stanley…

Patiently waiting for the soup to come to a boil. Image by Brianne Leary

…the rapid boil was taking so long that I thought I might have to touch up my roots before moving onto the matzo. Eventually, Stanley did his thing and the water came to a semi-rapid boil. I skimmed the foam and reduced the heat to a simmer with the lid ajar. Two hours later I gave it a taste added some salt and the dill and removed the Star Anise. For my taste, it had done its job.

Next: the MATZO’S. With no Cuisinart — I left all electrical appliances across the pond, voltage in England is different than in the States — I used the rolling pin my grandmother gave me and smashed the hell out of eight large Matzo crackers in a sealed ziplock bag.

The supermarket in Devon has no matzo meal, so the author made it herself. Image by Brianne Leary

After a few stress relieving minutes, I stirred in 5 beaten eggs (all at once) popped the mix in the fridge to rest. One hour later, I had a pot filled with salty, boiling water at the ready and prepared my matzo balls. Careful to not make them bigger than a couple of tablespoons each.

One by one I gently plopped them in, lowered the heat and covered the pot (lid on tight!)

I strained the soup, separating the veggies from the chicken. Mitchell says he only saves the chicken and tosses the veg. I kept both.

Did I achieve the impossible? Was my broth clear and golden?

The recipe did indeed yield clear, bright chicken soup. Image by Brianne Leary

YES! It was the color of the daffodils from our garden. OK. it wasn’t EXACTLY clear…I blame Stanley. No matter, I was pretty pleased with my shiska self!

40 minutes later…Voila! Deli-esque matzo balls.

OK…it looked part…but did it taste the part? Yes, Yes and YES! It was delicate but intense and incredibly rich.

Matzo ball on Manhattan. Image by Brianne Leary

I froze half of the soup and half a dozen matzo balls to have when ever I feel a twinge or the need for a hug from NYC…or …more likely, when Chris comes down with the MAN FLU which happens a few times a year.

Brianne Leary is a former actress and television host. These days she is a screenwriter, journalist and a passionate, curious cook. She lives in the English countryside but her heart is always in NYC. Brianne is currently working on a childhood memoir called “Naked in a Briar Patch.”

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