There’s a soup my mum made every Sunday when I was growing up. Nothing fancy. Whatever vegetables were in the fridge, a good stock, herbs from the garden if the weather had been kind that week. The same pot. The same wooden spoon, worn smooth on one edge from years of stirring. By four in the afternoon, the smell had filled the entire house — and I knew exactly what that meant. Homework at the kitchen table. The radio on low. Sunday slowing down around us, the way Sundays used to. I hadn’t made it in years. I’m a professional chef — I cook elaborate things, I test recipes for…