Bleh

Tonight I did something I'd never done before. It has been done for me. Once. By a neighbor. I made chicken soup from scratch. I've been sick for the last four days with a head/chest cold. During daily check-ins with my mother, who keeps asking if I have a fever (no fever: no swine flu), she repeats her mantra of "Drink, drink, drink till you slosh!" (She is referring to water of course...) A couple of days ago she started in on the chicken soup verse of her mantra. Do mantras have verses? I stopped by my local grocery store and picked up some of that "fresh made" soup kept in sealed plastic containers in the deli and a brand of instant chicken soup she recommended. Both were palatable and could be called "chicken soup" in the way that a Mozart concerto and the sound emanating from the back of an ice cream truck may both be referred to as "music".

Around 3 PM I ventured outside to walk my dog and ran into one of my neighbors who had just returned from her plot at a local community garden. I informed her of my contagious nature and she kindly offered me some large green onions and a bunch of dill weed. I decided on the spot to make chicken soup with these fresh ingredients along with bone-in chicken legs for stock made from scratch. The soup was made and later enjoyed with my neighbor, Amy (At the time of this posting she is the only follower of my blog I have. Hi, Amy!) While preparing to make the soup, my mother called to check in. When I informed her I was making soup, she suggested that I use canned broth and some chicken breast. Bleh. While I am certain that I do not know of the specific healing effects of chicken soup, I cannot imagine anything medicinal coming of such a thin, watery concoction.

It made me reflect on my approach to food and cuisine today in comparison to that of my childhood. My mother (who is now retired) was a career woman and never much of a house maker. That isn't to say that she was a poor cook. She is a very good cook. There exists a stable of tried and true staples many of which are comprised in part or entirely from boxes, bags, or cans. Some better than others, but rarely were there any new recipes. But that's okay. I certainly don't want to impune my mother's cooking here on the interwebs. Far from it. I never went hungry and with the exception of two dishes (out of MANY) I never groused about eating. I think it is about rebellion.

Think about it (if you went to a public school): who were the most promiscuous girls in the high school? The ones that went to Catholic School. Whose kids end up being the most out of controll? The offspring of the hard liners. What are my favorite vegetables? The ones my mother n-e-v-e-r prepared for us at home: spinache, lima beans, and brussell sprouts. There you have it. The closest I've ever come to true rebellion is in the produce asile. Sometimes I wonder if I'll just snap and truly rebel and get a motorcycle or something...

As I write this, I don't feel any better. Physically, that is. I do have a distinct sense of accomplishment for having done something that I never really gave much thought to as I opened a can or package of neon yellow powder and a few dried noodles. Trust me. It was worth it. Especially when I walked over a piping hot container of the stuff to my gardening neighbor. She smiled and told me to expect "much more" over the Summer. Score.

Now maybe I should get a chef's hat as a tattoo...