By Leslie Brenner

Minestrone is the unsung hero of the Italian table. It may not have the look-at-me pyrotechnics of soup dumplings, or the cheesy razzmatazz of cacio e pepe. A mediocre minestrone can be awfully dull.

But when it’s good, it can make you cry.

So what exactly is minestrone? It’s a vegetable soup. Beyond that, as La Cucina Italiana puts it, “it can become whatever you want it to be.”

In the summer, minestrone may be served cold, with herb-happy pesto swirled in. In the winter, it’s heart-warming comfort food. It usually has beans, but not necessarily. (Traditionally, they were more likely to be borlotti rather than cannellini in the winter, green beans in the summer.) A “robust vegetable soup thickened with rice or pasta, of which there are innumerable versions,” is the way Elizabeth David described it in her in her 1954 book Italian Food.

Marcella Hazan wrote that in her native Romagna, minestrone starts with the always-available staples — carrots, onion and potatoes — and these get cooked for hours in good broth. “The result is a soup of dense, mellow flavor that recalls no vegetable in particular, but all of them at once.” The recipe she offers also includes zucchini, celery, green beans, Savoy cabbage, cannellini beans, canned Italian plum tomatoes, meat broth and an optional Parmesan rind. At the end, she swirls in grated Parm. There’s no rice, no pasta.

There is rice, however, in the recipe that follows: a Milan-style summer minestrone. To make it, you start with her Romagna-style minestrone, add Arborio rice, cook till the rice is done, ladle in bowls and garnish with torn basils.

Stateside, the version of minestrone that has gotten the most traction in the last 75 years or lines up pretty well with Hazan’s winter warmer, with one important difference: Here there must be pasta. Because let’s admit it — the pasta is what makes minestrone soar. Take a spoonful; you’ve got all the diced veg, a bean or two, that nice, thick broth, and then fwap — you get a floppy elbow mac, or maybe a sucullent tubetti. Definitely not al dente. Slurp it up; it’s a prize. That’s what’s great about minestrone: that stray floppy pasta. It’s the thing that makes everyone happy.

Because minestrone can become whatever you or I want it to be, I use a lot of lacinato kale in mine, and cannellini beans — a can of them, so it’s super-easy. If I want to take more time and manage to plan ahead, I’ll use dried borlottis. I skip the potatoes, and use turnips instead; I prefer their texture and minerality. If I could find Savoy cabbage, I’d use a bunch of that. Carrots, celery, onions, thyme. A couple of bay leaves. Chicken broth. Definitely a Parmesan rind (somehow I usually have one.) I don’t stir in grated parm at the end; I like it a bit more pure.

Take my minestrone recipe and cook it as written — or run with it, and change it up however you like. Use potatoes instead of turnips, or baby spinach instead of kale. Or use both, or all four, or something else entirely (why not arugula?). Throw in some green beans, or peas, or sliced Brussels sprouts. Use vegetable broth instead of chicken, skip the parm rind and turn it vegan. Or go in the other direction and throw some diced pancetta in with the aromatic vegetables at the start, and add a flurry of grated parm as a final flourish.

Just one request: Don’t skip the pasta. You’ll be so much happier.

RECIPE: Minestrone with Kale and Turnips

RECIPE: Minestrone with Kale and Turnips