Soup Joumou: A Rib-Sticking Squash Soup

Every year on January 1, Haitians gather over the hearty squash soup, each batch brimming with vegetables, often beef (many sources say the soup was originally vegetarian), and pasta that soaks up the meaty, earthy-sweet broth. The idea isn’t just to consume it—or drink it, as Haitians affectionately say.

As Nadege Fleurimond, the Haitian-born chef and entrepreneur, said when we spoke about the dish, making and sharing it symbolizes Haiti’s liberty from French colonial rule more than 200 years ago and is one of the world’s most joyful cooking rituals.

Soup joumou represents more than just a meal to us,” she said. “It represents freedom, it represents resilience. It’s the dish that unites us as a people.” 

Momentum around the dish builds in the days leading up to the holiday as cooks pour themselves into its preparation.

They marinate chunks of beef in epis, Haiti’s sofrito-like paste that infuses deep savor into so much of the cuisine, and then boil them in highly seasoned broth until they’re tender and suffuse the pot with rich flavor.

Meanwhile, they simmer and puree Caribbean pumpkin—either Haiti’s native joumou or calabaza, the brawny, tam-o’-shanter-shaped gourd that’s long been cultivated in the region’s rich soil and is more widely available to expats.

The two components are merged, along with root vegetables and green cabbage, to build a soup that is both rib-sticking yet remarkably light. And when everything is nearly tender, cooks toss in pasta that ratchets up the soup’s heartiness even more. 

No two pots are exactly alike, which makes the sharing fun. (“You want to see who’s the better cook in the family,” Fleurimond joked.)

And despite the sheer volume of food to prep—every batch is built for a crowd—there are natural break points and work-ahead opportunities throughout that make it eminently doable.

Here’s a component-by-component breakdown of my recipe and how I prep each one strategically.

Epis—the foundation of virtually all savory Haitian cooking—almost always starts with green pepper, onion, garlic, parsley, scallion, and thyme. I process everything into a wet paste, loosening it with lime juice (a common addition when epis is used to marinate meat) and oil and seasoning it further with ultrasavory chicken bouillon and habanero for a hint of fruity burn. 

Chuck roast is ideal here: It’s easy to cut into chunks, and during cooking its abundant fat (I don’t trim any away) and collagen melt so the meat turns fork-tender. When it’s time to prepare the soup, all you do is massage the epis into the beef and let it marinate anywhere from 1 to 12 hours. The lime juice gently tenderizes the meat’s surface, while the salt and some glutamate flavor seep in a little deeper.

Caribbean squash such as calabaza is the heart of soup joumou, and it’s tailor-made for blending into a smooth puree thanks to its relatively high soluble fiber content. The key, I found, is to minimize the amount of cooking water, using just enough to submerge the squash chunks. Less liquid cuts down on the time spent waiting for the water to boil and results in a naturally concentrated puree that adds earthy sweetness and velvety body to the soup.

After marinating, the beef braises for about an hour in chicken broth seasoned with loads of softened onions and celery, garlic, tomato paste, and a bouquet garni of habanero chile, cloves, and thyme that adds fruity, aromatic warmth.

Once it’s tender and the broth has reduced and concentrated, I add the squash puree and the vegetables—twice as much by weight compared to the meat as a nod to soup joumou’s possible vegetarian origins. The last addition is pasta (often rigatoni), which likely became a fixture in the dish when the United States occupied Haiti in the early 20th century. To avoid overcooking it, I parboil the pasta in the soup and then let it finish softening as the pot sits covered off heat.