The Primordial Soups

Reading Time: 12 minutes

In 1976—or at least, that’s as close as I can remember—when I was about 12, I spent days alone exploring the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum (NASM) during a family trip to D.C. My parents, whether they realized it themselves or were convinced by me that the museum was all I needed to keep me occupied, left me to my own devices while they wandered the National Mall, unburdened. An arrangement that would likely land them in jail today—and me in the hands of CPS—but was perfectly normal in the days of rotary phones and a world not yet bestowed with GPS offspring-tracking devices. To be fair, I likely engineered the situation—and it was probably the product of my prodigious powers of persuasion.

I had devoured everything—the exhibits, the historic aircraft hung like full-size versions of my own carefully assembled airplane models—and I drank deeply from endless fountains of knowledge. I could have been a tour guide. I had even watched To Fly! multiple times, the museum’s brand-new IMAX film—groundbreaking at the time.

One moment in particular stood out: an aerial view of a quiet river, serene and still. The camera followed its course and, with breathtaking suddenness, revealed the drop into the roaring depths of Niagara Falls. The audience let out an audible gasp as the Earth seemed to vanish beneath them, leaving them suspended in air. The museum later had to add warning signs about potential nausea—but this might have been before those were in place.

It’s unclear whether the staff took note of my multi-day unaccompanied omnipresence.

On what must have been my third day of absorbing every molecule of the place, I wandered down a dark, unmarked hallway—the kind most visitors would pass without a second glance. I half expected a locked janitor’s closet. Instead, I found something stranger: a small, dimly lit room, its walls fashioned to look like the interior of a cave. No signs. No visitors. No explanation. Just a single floral-upholstered armchair—the kind that belonged in a grandmother’s parlor—and a wooden cabinet television from the ’50s or ’60s, waiting in the center.

I sat down, unsure if I was even supposed to be here. The chair’s worn fabric smelled faintly of construction dust and upholstery stuffing. The television, dark and silent, sat before me. Then, suddenly, the screen flickered to life.

And there she was.

“Hello. I’m Julia Child. I’m in my own kitchen today, and I’m boiling up some primordial soup….”

I recognized her immediately—I was a fan of The French Chef, which wasn’t exactly common for a 12-year-old boy at the time. Did I mention I was alone there? Anyway, the theme music from The French Chef, composed by John Morris, began to play over the title: Primordial Soup with Julia Child.

Julia Child, in her own kitchen, casually demonstrating the origins of life like it was just another recipe.

In the beginning, Julia walked me through the Miller-Urey experiment, explaining how scientists had attempted to recreate the conditions of early Earth to see if organic molecules—the building blocks of life—could form naturally. She hovered over the water, as if stirring a stew.

She explained the genesis of this film—how “in 1953, Professor Harold Urey had the bright idea of trying to reproduce all of this in the laboratory.” He suggested the experiment to “young Stanley Miller, his research assistant, only 23 years old at the time.” And so, Miller devised “this concoction of bulbs and tubes.”

“Now, here’s how Miller’s machine works,” Julia continued, gesturing at a diagram with the tip of her 10-inch kitchen knife. “This is water, representing the ocean. And this tube up here leads to the atmosphere, and that was filled with hydrogen, ammonia, and methane. And electric sparks—and that is to reproduce lightning bolts.”

The contraption cycled the water, vapor rising into the simulated sky, where it was “smacked by the electricity and condensed as though it were rain and fell right down into here and came back into this original water.”

And on the seventh day, as the waters rose and fell, Julia declared: “A fantastic transformation took place.” The simplest of ingredients had become something far more complex—”four of the amino acids essential to life.”

“Why had this happened?” she asked, pausing for effect. “It was because he had added energy in the form of heat and electricity.”

She treated the abiogenesis experiment like any recipe—Dr. Cyril Ponnamperuma’s, in this case—carefully measuring out sodium chloride, potassium bromide, and magnesium chloride. And then, with a crackle and a flash, electric sparks danced—releasing her own Zeus-like lightning bolts.

I sat transfixed, perched on the edge of that floral-upholstered seat.

And Julia said, “Can we make life? And is this the way life began on this Earth? Who knows! But according to the laws of probability, it certainly could be. Bon appétit!” (Take that, Carl Sagan! Who once said, “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch you must first invent the universe.” Julia, it seems, took a more practical, pragmatic, and hands-on approach to recipes.)

The theme music played again. The screen faded back to darkness.

It was one of the strangest, most fascinating things I had stumbled upon there—like a secret waiting to be found. No labels. No explanatory plaques. No signposting for the casual visitor. You had to earn it. In hindsight, I think that was intentional.

I suspect many patrons who made it as far as the secret chamber simply peeked inside, thought better of it, or quizzically orbited the chair and television, never realizing that sitting down was the key to unlocking the film—leaving with the exhibit’s enigmatic purpose unrevealed.

And I saw that happen firsthand. The sound must have carried into the hallway because a few visitors peeked inside, drawn by the distant singsong siren’s sound of science in Julia’s voice. They hesitated at the threshold, uncertain. I could see it happening—just as I had suspected, they were going to leave confused, missing the point of this strange little chamber entirely. I wasn’t about to let that happen on my watch.

Slipping into my unsolicited tour guide role, I gestured toward the chair with the quiet authority of someone who had already been shown the light. “You have to sit in the chair.” I instructed them.

They must have contemplated the authority of an overly enthusiastic feral, cave-dwelling, twelve-year-old, self-appointed museum docent—but to their credit, they listened. I watched, like a proud parent, because in that moment, this was my museum, a secret I hungered to share. And with each fresh flicker of the screen coming alive, I felt like I was brightening their lives by inducting them into the mysteries of Primordial Soup with Julia Child.

I may have considered staying on as a permanent, secret, unauthorized museum fixture. A cryptid—lurking in the ventilation system of NASM, ethically harvesting the occasional patron for their much-needed sustenance. A growing boy needs protein, after all. And their spent bones would only enhance the ambiance of Julia’s cave. Win-win! Alas… Ultimately, I settled for consuming knowledge instead of visitors.

The Smithsonian had produced this film specifically for NASM—it was an official part of their Life in the Universe exhibit (July 1, 1976–1979). It blended her warmth and enthusiasm with the cold precision of science—and, just perhaps, a pinch of quiet controversy.

Is it fair of me to suggest that the museum might have been mindful that this film had the ingredients for potential backlash? Instead of placing it front and center, they tucked it away in a dark, unmarked hallway—no signs, no explanation. That, in itself, said… something. Though the film was Smithsonian-produced, I can imagine that some might have raised concerns and weren’t eager to draw too much attention to it. The official exhibit description offers a curiously limited summation: “Equipment used to create organic molecules in a simulated primitive Earth environment.” It makes no reference to the film’s broader discussion on the subject of life’s origins—how its building blocks may have formed on Earth or elsewhere—or Julia, for that matter.

I suspect NASM, being largely focused on technology, rarely finds itself at the center of controversy over its exhibits. Sure, they must occasionally fend off letters from furious Flat Earthers around the globe, convinced the museum is part of a grand conspiracy. And perhaps, if one looks closely enough, Orville Wright’s pose, perched atop the wing of the Wright Flyer, seems just a little too… suggestive. But beyond that? Hardly a scandal to be found.

Maybe it was easier to sidestep controversy than invite it. Julia had presented them with the gift of amino acid-laden hot water. Best to keep it a little obscure—lest they find themselves writhing in that same hot water. After all, no one wants to be the lightning rod in a storm.

On the other hand, could it simply have been a quirk of exhibit design? Maybe it was a deliberate and intelligent design choice, meant to add mystery and evoke the primordial world it explored. Or perhaps the exhibit wasn’t fully complete—this was the first section opened, in its own primordial form. Ready enough, but not yet fully developed, much like the very subject it sought to explain.

A possible clue? The exhibit’s official description later included “U.S.S. Enterprise, the studio model from the Star Trek television series.” If that had been on display at the time, I am certain that I would have remembered it vividly. I don’t.

According to the 2010 Smithsonian Magazine article, Julia Child and the Primordial Soup by Sarah Zielinski, the film was later moved to the National Museum of American History, where it was sometimes played near Julia Child’s famous kitchen exhibit.

To this day, I still don’t know how many others ever saw it in that odd original setting.

But I did.

I dragged my parents to it once we met up again.

Later that day—or perhaps the next—we used our passes to sit in the Senate Gallery, where I watched, firsthand, as NASA’s ambitions were curtailed. I don’t recall the exact bill they were debating, but it wasn’t going my way.

I believe it was the defunding of the so-called Grand Tour, a proposed mission plan designed to take advantage of a rare planetary alignment. I can still picture some unknown-to-me senator’s impassioned plea—that this was a fleeting opportunity, occurring only once every 176 years. The alignment would allow spacecraft to use gravity assists at Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune, slingshotting across the solar system while dramatically reducing travel time and costs. But though he had my ear—both of my generously sized ears, in fact—I could sense he had no one’s ear on the Senate floor. Where was Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith when you needed him?

Just a couple of years earlier, grade school had been halted midday, televisions on stands rolled out so we could watch together as the final Apollo mission launched—and later, as it splashed down. The Space Shuttle was still a promise, and one that looked uncertain. I could now see where the fuel for these endeavors—the will, the funding, the fire—had begun to drain away, bled out by those who held the purse strings but lacked the vision to sustain it.

I began to understand—my future, my then-perfectly-reasonable expectation of eventually living on a wheel in space, was being ripped from my hands. The Air and Space Museum had given me dreams to reach for, only for short-sighted politicians to snatch them away.

I think that when writing to a senator to request passes for access to the Capitol, you had to specifically ask for a cafeteria pass—if one were so inclined. It was an atypical request, since most visitors were more interested in the legislative process than the lunch menu. However, my mom was set on feasting upon the—by resolution, always on the menu—Senate Bean Soup amongst the senators—which we did—like some kind of ritualistic initiation into the halls of power, via legumes. The Senate may not always agree on budgets or policy, but by some miracle, they have preserved a century-old commitment to serving bean soup. I believe Julia would have approved of that as a goal worthy of pursuit.

And to tie that back to spaceflight, the recipe for Shuttle Beans follows a similar formula—simple, hearty, and steeped in tradition. A few years after my trip, in 1981, as the Space Shuttle’s promise was finally manifesting, NASA Test Director Bob Carlson brought a Crock Pot of beans and cornbread to the launch team—a humble way to refuel and mark a successful mission. With each triumphant launch, the ritual grew, eventually reaching 600 gallons—a quiet, comforting constant in the high-stakes world of spaceflight. Though Carlson has since passed, his tradition lives on, a small but enduring piece of NASA’s history. Once again, I believe Julia would have approved.

We played a round of vacation “spot the out-of-state senators” but respectfully left them to their lunches, undisturbed. It was a strange environment—alien, even. I believe Jane Goodall would have approved of our quiet observation as the senators, in their natural habitat, engaged in their midday feeding rituals.

Fast forward to today, and Senate Bean Soup is no longer an obscure quest for those with insider knowledge and a senator’s pass to the cafeteria. It has transformed into a well-known tourist item, served in the public cafeteria of the U.S. Senate Visitors Center, with commemorative mugs available for purchase in the gift shop. The days—when you could simply write a senator for passes to their cafeteria—are long gone.

We also had a subscription to Smithsonian Magazine, which qualified us as members, though I don’t recall exactly what privileges that granted us. Maybe free admission, maybe access to another cafeteria.

As a side note, I also loved Nova, the then fairly new PBS science show—another WGBH production, like The French Chef. It’s my personal theory that Nova might never have existed without Julia’s success. Before she taught America to cook, public television wasn’t in the business of making stars—or drawing big audiences. But Julia changed that. She proved that learning could be entertaining, that education could hold its own on TV. Without her, would WGBH have had the influence (or the funding) to take a chance on a high-quality science series? So while I might be wrong, that won’t stop me from declaring her the proverbial mother of popular science communication.

Science, space, politics, and soup—somehow, they converged and blended together organically. Fundamental building blocks of life. Julia showed us her primordial broth, the senators, graciously, let us share their bean soup, and I was left stirring the pieces of a future that would now never be.

And I still have a copy of the video. Now, so do you. So, dim the lights in your cave, have a seat in your floral-upholstered armchair, click on the power knob of the Zenith, and enjoy. Bon appétit!

From the origins of life to the halls of government to the frontiers of space, these recipes embody the traditions, discoveries, and ambitions that have shaped our world—and beyond.

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🌍 Primordial Soup

📖 Source: Dr. Cyril Ponnamperuma

🔬 Category: Experimental / Prebiotic Chemistry

⏳ Total Time: 1 week

🍽 Yield: 1 liter

Ingredients

• 1 liter pure distilled water
• 24 grams sodium chloride (NaCl) (table salt)
• 4 grams sodium sulfate (Na₂SO₄)
• 1 gram potassium bromide (KBr)
• 1 gram potassium chloride (KCl)
• 9 grams calcium chloride (CaCl₂)
• 20 grams magnesium chloride (MgCl₂)

Instructions

1. Prepare the Primordial Ocean
   • In a heat-safe laboratory flask, combine distilled water with the salts listed above.
   • Stir until dissolved.
2. Simulate Early Earth Conditions
   • Transfer the solution to a setup like Julia Child’s primordial soup machine from the Smithsonian segment.
   • Heat the liquid to simulate the evaporation cycle of ancient oceans.
3. Introduce the Primordial Atmosphere
   • Fill the chamber above the liquid with methane, ammonia, and hydrogen gas.
4. Apply Energy (Lightning & UV)
   • Run electrical sparks through the chamber to mimic lightning.
   • Optionally, let there be ultraviolet light for additional energy input.
5. Condense and Recirculate
   • Allow vapor to rise, condense, and fall back into the solution, repeating the cycle for at least one week.
6. Observe for Organic Compounds
   • After several days, check for the formation of amino acids, carbohydrates, and nucleic acid precursors.
7. Rest
   • As is the wont. Amen.

Notes

• ⚠ Not for human consumption. ☠️
• ⚠ Use proper safety precautions when handling gases and electricity.
• 📜 This recipe is based on Dr. Cyril Ponnamperuma’s work and the experimental setup demonstrated by Julia Child at the Smithsonian.

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🏛️ Senate Bean Soup

A Hearty Tradition Combining the Best of Both Senate Recipes

📖 Source: Senator Fred Dubois of Idaho

🥣 Category: Soup

⏳ Total Time: 3+ hours

🍽 Yield: 8-10 servings

Ingredients

• 1 pound dried navy beans
• 2 quarts hot water
• 1 smoked ham hock
• ¾ lb. smoked ham, cubed
• ¾ cup chopped onion
• ½ cup chopped celery
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• ¼ bunch parsley, chopped
• 2 cups mashed potatoes (about 2 medium potatoes, cooked and mashed)
• 1 tablespoon butter
• Salt and pepper, to taste

Instructions

1. Prepare the Beans
   • Rinse dried navy beans thoroughly.
   • Run hot water through them until they are slightly whitened.
2. Simmer the Soup
   • Place beans in a large stockpot with 2 quarts of hot water.
   • Add ham hocks (or ham & bone) and bring to a gentle simmer.
   • Cover and cook for 3 hours.
3. Filibuster
   • While stirring occasionally, deliver a stirring, hours-long speech about American ideals and the power of soup, à la Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Refuse to yield the floor until the beans are tender.
4. Prepare the Ham
   • Remove ham hocks from the soup and set aside to cool.
   • Dice the meat and return it to the pot along with the additional diced ham.
5. Add Aromatics (@ about 2 hours)
   • Stir in the chopped celery, garlic, and parsley.
   • Let simmer for an additional 60 minutes to allow the vegetables to cook and the flavors to blend.
6. Sauté the Onions
   • In a small pan, melt butter over medium heat.
   • Lightly brown the chopped onions.
   • Stir the sautéed onions into the soup.
7. Finish the Soup
   • Stir in the mashed potatoes to thicken the broth and enhance the texture.
   • Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Notes

• 🥔 Thicker & Heartier: The mashed potatoes add a creamier, richer texture.
• 🏛 Traditional Yet Unique: This version honors both the Dubois and current Senate recipes.
• 🥖 Serving Suggestion: Best enjoyed with crusty bread or cornbread for a classic touch.

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🚀 Shuttle Beans

A NASA Launch Team Tradition

📖 Source: NASA test director Norm Carlson

🥣 Category: Stews, USA

⏳ Total Time: 8–10 hours

🍽 Yield: 8-10 servings

Ingredients

• 1 lb. dried Great Northern beans
• 2 smoked ham hocks
• ¾ lb. smoked ham, cubed
• 1-½ cups chopped onion
• 1 cup chopped celery
• ⅛ tsp. liquid smoke
• ½ tsp. lemon pepper
• Salt, to taste

Instructions

1. Prepare the Beans
   • Rinse dried Great Northern beans thoroughly.
   • Soak beans overnight in 1 quart of water.
   • Drain beans, retaining the liquid. Add enough water to make 2 quarts.
2. Cook (Morning)
   • Place the beans in a slow cooker.
3. Add the Flavor
   • Add ham hock, cubed ham, lemon pepper, onions, celery, and liquid smoke to the pot.
   • Add enough water to cover the beans by 1–2 inches. As the beans cook and absorb liquid, check occasionally and add more water if needed to keep them submerged.
4. Slow Cook
   • Set slow cooker to low and cook for 8–10 hours, stirring occasionally.
   • Add more water as needed to keep the beans from drying out.
5. Launch A Shuttle
   • Retrieve a space shuttle from its usual storage spot—probably behind the pickles.
   • Fill the external tank with 1,359,000 lb (2,285,712 cups) of liquid oxygen (LOX) and 226,000 lb (6,128,816 cups) of liquid hydrogen (LH₂).
   • Secure two solid rocket boosters, ensuring each is fully loaded with 1,100,000 lb (16,874,000 tbsp) of ammonium perchlorate propellant.
   • Ignite SRBs.
6. Final Touches (T-1 Hour)
   • Once the beans are tender, remove the ham hock, shred the meat, and return it to the pot along with the additional diced ham.
   • Stir well and adjust seasoning to taste.
   • Use an immersion blender at the end to thicken the base while maintaining some texture.

Notes

• 🚀 Launch Team Tradition: NASA test director Norm Carlson started this tradition on April 12, 1981, by bringing a crockpot of beans and cornbread for the team after a successful shuttle launch.
• 🎙 “Beans are go!” has become launch team shorthand for “Mission accomplished—let’s eat!”
• 🥖 Serving Suggestion: Serve with cornbread.