Grandma Angelina's Sopa de Fideos

Chicken Soup For The Soul

There are recipes that feed your body, and then there are recipes that heal something much deeper. For me, this is that recipe.

Growing up in a Colombian family, there was one soup my grandmother, Angelina, made whenever my sister or I were sick, exhausted, heartbroken, or simply needed a reset. We called it sopa de fideos because she made it with thin angel hair noodles, though if she didn't have noodles in the pantry, she'd stir in cooked rice instead and call it sopa de arroz. It didn't matter which version she made — it was never just soup. It was comfort and safety. It was home.

I was talking with my sister this morning, telling her that I made Grandma's soup, and the very first thing she asked me was, "Did you put carrots in it?" We both laughed, because somehow we'd always known the carrots were one of the best parts. Last night my boyfriend Josh had a bowl, and the first thing he mentioned was how much he loved the little potatoes — another one of Grandma's signatures. It's funny how memories can hide inside something as simple as a carrot or a potato.

The truth is, I needed this soup. The past few weeks have been some of the hardest I've had in a long time. I spend my days helping entrepreneurs build businesses — writing business plans, improving marketing, understanding finances, preparing for loans, chasing dreams people have carried for years. It's work I truly love, and most days, people are incredibly grateful (because its FREE to them) . But sometimes they aren't. Every once in a while, after spending hours helping someone move their dream forward, I'll ask them to complete a simple survey I need for my own reporting, and they'll tell me they're too busy, or simply choose not to. It shouldn't hurt, but sometimes it does — not because of the survey itself, but because when you give so much of yourself to helping other people, even the smallest moments of indifference can feel surprisingly heavy.

This summer brought another kind of heartbreak. A friend of mine, Chef Wilbur, passed away. He was talented, funny, and always eager to learn, and I pushed him because I believed in him — I wanted him to become the chef I knew he could be. After he passed, I found myself wondering if I had been too hard on him. I know, in my heart, that his death wasn't my fault, but grief has a way of asking questions that logic can never answer.

When I went to say goodbye to Wilbur at the funeral home, something happened that stopped me in my tracks. He was in the exact same room where I had said goodbye to my grandmother years before. The same room, the same corner, the same overwhelming feeling. I couldn't stop crying. For a moment, I imagined them meeting each other — Grandma Angelina welcoming Wilbur the way she welcomed everyone, with kindness, warmth, and probably something good to eat.

There's another memory that makes me smile. Whenever I'd stop by the restaurant to check on Wilbur or help him work through a challenge in the kitchen, he'd thank me by handing me a bar of Abuelita chocolate. He never knew it was my grandmother's favorite hot chocolate, but every single time he gave me one, it quietly reminded me of her. Now I like to imagine the two of them together, walking into heaven with that same chocolate between them. I hope she's teaching him to make this soup, because if I became the chef I am today, it's because she was my first teacher, my first mentor, and still the greatest one I'll ever have.

I've always said that one day I hope I'm the kind of grandmother people remember. Not because I know exactly what that looks like, but because I already had one. Grandma Angelina taught me that cooking is about taking care of people. She taught me that the best meals aren't measured by perfect recipes or expensive ingredients, but by how loved someone feels when they leave your table.

A few days ago, on August 2nd, I celebrated my birthday, and after everything this summer had brought, I was overwhelmed by the kindness people showed me. So many messages, so many phone calls, so many reminders that the work I do matters. I felt incredibly loved. Instead of simply saying thank you, I wanted to share something that means more to me than almost anything else. I rarely share my family's recipes — but this one deserves to be shared, because maybe someday you'll make it for someone you love. Maybe they'll remember the carrots. Maybe they'll remember the tiny potatoes. Maybe they'll remember how the kitchen smelled while the soup simmered on the stove. And maybe, years from now, they'll think of you every time they make it. That's how love lives on, one bowl at a time.

Grandma Angelina's Colombian Sopa de Fideos

Soup Without Garnish

Soup With Garnish

Serves 6–8

Ingredients

For the Chicken

• 1 whole chicken (4–5 pounds), cut into 8 pieces

• Optional: gizzards and liver (my favorite chef's snack)

Dry Seasoning

• 2 teaspoons adobo seasoning

• ½ tablespoon garlic powder

• ½ tablespoon onion powder

• 1 teaspoon dried oregano

• ½ tablespoon garlic salt

Fresh Herb Marinade

• ¼ white onion

• White part of 1 scallion

• 2 garlic cloves

• Juice of 1 lemon

• ¼ cup fresh cilantro

• ¼ cup fresh parsley

Blend until smooth. Rub the chicken with the dry seasoning first, then coat it with the herb marinade, and let it rest for about 30 minutes. Don't skip this step — it gives the chicken incredible flavor before it ever reaches the soup pot.

For the Soup

• 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

• Remaining ¼ cup diced white onion

• 1 quart unsalted chicken broth

• Water, if needed

• 2 cups diced carrots

• 1 cup diced celery

• ¼ cup chopped white scallion

• 2 sprigs thyme

• ¼ cup chopped cilantro

• 10 baby Yukon Gold potatoes (or small red potatoes)

• 1 ear fresh summer corn

• About one-quarter of a package of angel hair pasta, broken into 1-inch pieces

  
  

Make the Soup

Warm a large soup pot over medium heat and add the olive oil, then add the diced onion and cook until softened. Place the marinated chicken into the pot along with every bit of the marinade — that's pure flavor, so don't leave any behind. Cover the pot and let the chicken sweat gently for about five minutes, then pour in the chicken broth and add enough water to completely cover the chicken if necessary. Add the carrots, celery, scallions, thyme, and cilantro, and bring everything to a gentle simmer until the chicken is fully cooked and beautifully tender.

Remove the chicken and let it cool just enough to handle, then shred the meat into bite-sized pieces. When my sister and I were little, this was our job — we'd sit with Grandma, watch a novela together, pick the chicken from the bones, and snack on all the little pieces left behind. Cartilage included. I know some people think that's strange. I think it's delicious.

Taste the broth, and if it's a little too concentrated, simply add a splash of water until it tastes just right; this soup rarely needs additional salt, so season carefully. Using a ladle, skim away the softened celery, onions, and thyme stems, leaving behind a beautiful, clear broth. Add the potatoes and the whole ear of corn, and simmer until the potatoes are tender and the corn has flavored the broth, about 10 minutes. Remove the corn, slice the kernels from the cob, and stir them back into the soup.

Break the angel hair into short pieces with your hands and stir it into the broth — a little goes a long way, since too much pasta will absorb all of that beautiful broth. Cook just until tender, then turn off the heat and return the shredded chicken to the soup.

Cabbage & Lime Salad

While the soup finishes, combine:

• Thinly sliced white onion

• Thinly sliced red cabbage

• Chopped cilantro

• Thinly sliced scallions

• Juice of 2 limes

• Zest of 1 lime

• 1 teaspoon kosher salt

Mix everything together and let it sit for at least five minutes — the longer it rests, the better it gets.

To Serve

Place a generous handful of shredded chicken into each bowl, then ladle the hot broth over the chicken, making sure everyone gets plenty of carrots, potatoes, corn, and noodles. Top with the cabbage-lime salad, fresh cilantro, and a wedge of lime. If you enjoy a little heat, add sliced jalapeños, Sambal Oelek, Green Tabasco, or your favorite hot sauce. In Colombia, many of us also serve this soup with steamed white rice, sliced avocado, and — even though my American friends always laugh — a perfectly ripe banana. Trust me, it belongs there.

This recipe is dedicated to my Grandma Angelina, who taught me that the best meals aren't measured by ingredients but by the love stirred into every pot. And to Chef Wilbur, thank you for the friendship, the Abuelita chocolate, and for reminding me that mentorship is one of the greatest gifts we can give another person. I hope the two of you are cooking together now.

If someone you love is having a difficult day, make them this soup. Sit with them while they eat. Listen more than you speak. That's what my grandmother did for me, and somehow, every bowl still feels like one of her hugs.

Every time I make this soup, I get to spend another afternoon with my grandmother. Recipes are funny — they don't just preserve food, they preserve people. I hope this recipe becomes part of your family's story, too.