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The magic of Mom's chicken soup
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The love stirred into a mother's culinary creation feeds and warms the soul.
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By Lorraine Gane
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It was the day I'd been waiting for. But rising out of bed in the early morning light of my mother's house, I felt a heaviness in my head and sinuses, the lingering effects of the flu that had kept me housebound for the past several days. As I slipped into flannel pants and a sweatshirt, I wondered how I'd fare that afternoon at the local library where friends and family were gathering to hear me read from my first book of poetry. I'd flown back to Toronto from the West Coast for this event and, despite the way I felt, I was determined to make the best of the occasion.
I was still contemplating the reading when, as I opened the door of the bedroom, a soft earthy aroma enveloped me, an aroma I realized was chicken soup that my mother, Mary, was making. I smiled, flooded with memories of the magical broth, handed down from her mother, Anna, to become an integral part of family dinners during my childhood and teenage years.
Now, its scent seemed to bathe every cell with its healing essence. My head and sinuses cleared as soon as I walked into the kitchen, where the old chicken soup pot was sitting on the stove emitting its delicate steam. Moments later, my mother emerged from the basement where she'd been doing the laundry and other tasks. She told me she'd been up since before dawn making the soup and setting the dining room table for lunch, when my oldest brother's family would join us.
I couldn't wait. After last-minute preparations for the reading, I took the biggest bowl from the cupboard and ladled large scoops of golden broth with bits of carrot, celery and potato into it. Then, I forked a pile of newly cooked egg noodles into the bowl and blended the mixture. Ensconced on the living room couch with the bowl on my lap and spooning the delightful concoction into my mouth, I felt sure I'd be well enough to do a passable reading. And indeed, I was.
Extending my stay over the next couple of weeks and with Christmas approaching, I watched the unfolding of my mother's holiday cooking. First was the baking of white Christmas cake, a 40-year family tradition, as is the highly coveted dark cake, which she had made before my arrival. (In weeks to come, she would lay out both versions in silver dishes around the house, or wrap them as gifts for her friends and neighbours.) Next she baked delicate tarts of sweet mincemeat that, after a small sampling, she wisely stored in boxes in the freezer. Following this came pale, perfectly baked shortbread that melted in my mouth.
Share your memorable holiday food stories with other readers in our forums.
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