The sounds my husband makes when he eats my soup (absolutely no euphemism) are contented sounds. Slurping. Belly-patting. Feet-kicking like a happy infant's.
Don't bother comforting anyone with apples. The way to comfort is with broth. Why is this so? Soup is the anti-information highway, speedster, sous-vide, molecular gastronomy. It's made in one pot, for God's sake, with ingredients even a toddler can identify: onions, garlic, chickens. Or bread and tomato. You do not need a kitchen torch or a kitchen scale. What you need is willingness to have the whole place smell like chicken schmaltz, meaning terrific, and that takes time. The flavors must build slowly, brick by brick a great pyramid of flavor. Can't believe I said that. Worse: I'm earnest.
Cheesy as it is, (and cheese certainly has its place in soups, I'm talking minestrone here and French onion) soup is a time-gift. What is more precious than time? Okay, saffron, the saffron you put in bouillabaisse.
The point is, what are you ladles waiting for? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, the time to make Mediterranean seafood soup is now.