The Loneliness of Soup

27 Jun

People talk about the first time they feel like a grown up. Getting married, having a baby, buying a house, bailing yourself out of overdraft fees, indignation at the state of young people, etc.

For me? The moment of adulthood came with the first miserable cold and the realization that if I wanted soup to make me feel better, I was going to have to make it myself.

You can’t get Jewish Penicillin out of a can, you can kind-of-sort-of-not-really get it from a deli, the Kosher New York deli notwithstanding. It’s not the same as the chicken cooking in your pot. The fumes are part of the magic.

It probably goes without saying that I’m the alpha and omega of cooking in this house. Dr Horrible could cook if he wanted, but the litany of questions would not be worth it.

How much water?
How do I cut up this onion?
What knife do I use?
How high do I turn the burner?
Do I add salt?

Bless his heart, or bless mine, because I just shoo his brainy butt out of the kitchen, through actual ignorance or artful manipulation, OUT OUT OUT.

Also? Few things make me more miserable than a cold. Having wound vac dressings changed and the Atkins diet are the only worse things I can think of right now. I can play through almost anything, but the damn rhinovirus knocks me on my ass.

So it was with snuffly, red-nosed misery that I came home and redistributed my chicken spaghetti ingredients to soup form, even on this 463 degree day. I could only perceive the salt and heat levels to be correct, but the family ate it. I guess it worked.

Mostly? Even now as a grown woman, when I’m snuffly sick, I don’t want to power through. I want my mommy.

And if the conclusion doesn’t make sense, it’s because I gave into Lady Nyquil halfway through. I’m so congested, I didn’t even notice it was licorice flavored until a couple minutes later. WHINE.



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