I grew up drinking home-style Cantonese soups, returning from school to the warm fog of simmering vegetables and bony meat in the kitchen. All afternoon, the pot would bubble slowly and by the time we sat down to dinner, the broth glowed gold. The carrots were simmered until fuzzy at the edges, the spent chicken dry and shreddy as twine, fit only for the cats. I loved the crystalline broth, with the subtle yet pure taste of its ingredients, but for dinner now, I want the soup to be a meal in itself.