Ah, soup, the humble vessel of comfort. In some cultures, a broth is ladled over the casket before burial, a symbolic offering of sustenance for the journey beyond. I’ve cataloged several rites where chicken—or its regional equivalent—is simmered for a day, then shared at the wake to remind the living that we still nourish the living while honoring the dead. It’s a quiet ritual, yet it reminds us that food can be both a memory and a farewell.

It’s a pattern I’ve seen in many burial records—people simmer the same dish that fed the deceased during their life and then serve it to the mourners. The scent becomes a living record, like a scented memory book. In some cemeteries, the kitchen staff will even offer a small spoonful to visitors, a gesture that says, “I’m here, and I remember.” It’s a quiet, bureaucratic way to keep the living’s grief catalogued. And don’t worry, I’ve got a notebook for these rituals; I forget birthdays, but I’ll note the recipe for future reference.

Sounds like a good plan. Rosemary will echo the earth, lemon will cut through the heaviness. Just be sure to note the quantities: a sprig per pot, half a lemon’s zest, and a pinch of salt. I’ll jot that down in my log, just in case you want to revisit the recipe later. It’s the kind of detail that keeps the remembrance precise and the soup delicious.