#SOLSC24
I just left my kitchen where I placed two large pots on the stove. I had filled each pot with water, added fresh parsley, dill and basil. Then, I added the essential veggies: onion, carrots, leeks and celery to the pots. I sprinkled lots of salt and pepper as I dropped in the most important ingredient, a whole fresh, organic chicken. I plan to let the liquid simmer for hours, allowing the aroma of fresh cooked chicken soup simmering in the pots fill my lungs and my house. It’s the delicious smell of holidays, love, family and of my mom.
I dread the hard part that will come in a few hours, after the soup's ingredients and spices have cooked and melded as the clear water turns into a yellowish broth. I will let the broth cool and then gather my tools to remove the bones, skim the fat from top of the broth the skin created and cut up the veggies and chicken meat that will be returned in the quarts along with the broth. Sadness overwhelms me the moment I place the chicken into the large pot as I long for the lost soul who no longer is scooting around its coop, and now being cooked. Maybe one day I’ll be that vegetarian that I often contemplate. My dad used to share with us how his mother, Sophie from Poland, would buy live chickens. My father’s job was to kill the chicken and then he’d help his mother defeather the bird and get it ready for cooking. I can’t begin to imagine that scene, but remembering what Grandma Sophie had to do to prepare her soup makes me appreciate that I live in this century. As a kid I looked forward to my mother’s cooking, especially during the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Passover. She’d outdo herself every time as she prepared a banquet of delicious sweet and sour brisket, carrot and potato tzimmes, gefilte fish, and all the traditional fixings. My favorite was always my mother’s chicken soup and her matzo balls. Even though she had perfected them over the years, my father would comment as if he was saying it for this first time, “Edythe, let’s see if this year's matzo balls are “floaters” or ''sinkers!” Over the years, following my mom’s recipes, I’ve gotten pretty good at preparing the broth and the balls, but nothing I prepare will ever be as tasty and delicious as my moms. Unlike matzo balls, my mom’s chicken soup wasn’t just for the Jewish holidays, it was also medicine. My mother’s nickname was “Doctor Bubbe,” as she always somehow knew how to cure everything under the sun. Her chicken soup would ail a cold, the flu or even pregnancy nausea. It was magical. I’m not sure if this comfort food worked because it was cooked with love or the benefits of the chicken’s bone marrow, but it always did the trick. In just a few hours I will be busy separating the bones from the broth and cutting up carrots, getting my chicken soup ready to be shared with my family and two little grandsons for this year’s Passover dinner.
1 Comment
3/23/2021 08:00:35 pm
What a delicious slice. So mouthwateringly good descriptions and especially describing the harder part to come, when you have to pull everything apart. Your mum's cooking sounds amazing, but I'm sure you do cook as well as she can!
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Eva KaplanSea glass, found on beaches, is naturally worn and smooth by tide and time,. As a wife, mother, Bubbe, teacher, reader & life-long learner, and of course, sea glass collector, I aspire to use writing to help me understand myself and the world around me. Archives
March 2024
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