It is almost soup season, which is to say it is getting cooler and dark in the evening.
The opposite of snow and sub-zero temperatures isn’t sunshine and warmth. It’s a bowl of tomato soup, steaming. Or beef stew or lobster bisque. A few slurps from a spoon and bones thaw, then coziness creeps up legs. The latter months are for soup, and if I were a bowl of split peas, I’d be pretty pleased with myself. But what about the saltine? The humble soda cracker can be crumbled and snapped in two or eaten whole in one bite. Don’t tell soup that a small stack of crackers stands behind every pot of gumbo or cup of borscht. Saltine crackers. Waiting. Ready. Hopeful.
This is a love letter to saltines, the brave older sibling of the potato chip, friend to all soups, and the unsung hero of the all-night diner.
In my life, I have had some money and no money, and there have been times I have eaten well — steak and shrimp and more shrimp — and times I have had to count beans, but so long as I had at least one sleeve of crackers I never went hungry. Well, one sleeve of crackers and a can of soup, or at least milk and butter, potatoes and onions.
Those are the ingredients to potato soup, my dad’s recipe. I survived a six-week-long February in New York City on potato soup once. I made enough to fill a bathtub. That meal isn’t complete without a saltine cracker floating like a raft. Let me revise again: so long as I had a sleeve of crackers, I ate well.
I have made three soups this winter, the first being chili, which is soup-like. I serve it with garnishes like green onions and cheese. I also serve it with saltines because chili and crackers like to slow dance.
I’ve made chicken noodle soup. A noodle is a long, wet cracker but does not possess the saltine’s secret power, the crunch, the snap when split in two. One never gets bored with a cracker’s snap because every snap is unique, a brief song, no two are alike.
Lastly, I also made a lentil stew, and sometimes, I would soak a corner of a saltine in the green broth until it was too tender to snap. Oh, I do love a soft cracker, sodden with soup. Does the cracker serve the soup or vice versa? I dip my saltines, crush them into powder, and sprinkle; I keep them separate, a post-slurp nibble.
Saltines are the alpha crackers. But I respect other crackers, like the hard-working Triscuit and the show-offy Ritz. I am a fan of Cheez-Its. I will always have a weakness for small crackers and processed cheese. Speaking of small: I see you, oyster cracker, hexagonal-shaped cousin of the saltine, making chowders chowder-ier. (Clam, corn, all chowders rule.) I will eat Wheat Thins, even if Wheat Thins are smug. Yes, yes, “whole grains.”
The saltine cracker is a minor miracle of chemistry: white flour, yeast, and baking soda mixed, their molecules rearranging and transforming into a new substance with a bit of help, like heat. It’s not a complicated process, but it’s still something magical. Well, a generous pinch of salt to finish first, and then it’s something magical. Voila, crackers, perfect little crunchy squares, strong and fragile, a holy thing, really.
Every cracker that has ever been eaten and yet to be eaten is a small blessing. Angels nibble on them as they gawk at us from their clouds, the crumbs falling to earth like snowflakes. I am thankful for crackers; they’re inexpensive and simple, making me feel safe and full.
Full! The American dream. To be full, stuffed, to momentarily want no more. A cracker can do that.
I grew up eating saltines, of course. Not everyone did. I get that. My mother is a Mexican-American woman, and my dad is a good ol’ boy, the son of a Baptist preacher. She cooked, mostly, and tortillas were a constant in my life growing up. But sometimes, we’d eat the foods my dad was raised on during the lean years of his youth, and crackers were the tortillas.
My old man used to butter them, which he did carefully and deliberately. He was patient, slathering his saltine crackers, careful not to break them because the payoff would make all the effort worthwhile. Sometimes, he’d smear purple-flavored jelly on his buttered saltines as a dessert.
One of his favorite recipes: sardines smashed, mixed with minced onions and piled on crackers. Another: a squirt of mayo, a triangle of liverwurst, a saltine cracker. Country nachos. He’d arrange those snacks into squat pyramids on a plate and watch football. But saltines were mostly the trusty sidekick of soups, especially potato soup, a very basic meal his mother would make during the Depression. Cheap food. Milk, butter, potatoes, onions. The crackers made it a meal.
I can find saltines at the gas station and the convenience store. Every pharmacy sells them because what better soothes an upset stomach? Other than ginger ale? The fancy gourmet grocery stocks saltines along with other varieties, but there is only one flavor of saltine, and that is saltine flavor. Not even capitalism can improve you. Dear Soda Cracker, you are a friend to all soups and, most of all, to me, John.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of John DeVore's work on Medium. And order his book, Theater Kids: A True Tale of Off-Off Broadway here.