200,000 dollars on a college degree and I actually botched chicken soup. "Seriously? Seriously," I mused, as I looked down at the bowl I'd little serve to Oliver, let alone my own mother.
Mom has end stage Huntington's Disease and can hardly hold a conversation, or a spoon, but we still have a weekly dinner. Now, with her diet restrictions, I am not only faced with the confoundments of Julia Child's The Joy of Cooking, but I must continue of mincing every morcel past oblivion to avoid a chocking hazard.
As a slightly over privileged twenty something, there are few things in my culinary repertoire beyond organic Annie's Mac & Cheese, so when my very ill mother called beckoning for homemade chicken soup, I figured how hard: four hours, three google searches, two transport disasters and one carrot sized stain later, I reached my greatest difficulty.
"Can that glop truly be chicken soup?"
The true kicker was I had finally made a wonderful dish, but also I made the mistake I'm sure many a newborn parent has and tried the blended concoction, and let me tell you: thank god she's on so many mind bending medications. She ate that gruel like emeril had made it. Granted she could eat those capsules we all used to buy from the ice cream man. Mom may have passed out before eating, from all the good conversation, or she was playing possum from that mush, but chicken soup was all together healing for the soul.
As I unbuncorded the soup vat and went to tuck the bungie away, as a thirty pound scythe clattered on my head, and my entire body to the ground. Possible concussion under observation.
Lesson one of the night, chicken soup only good in original state.
Lesson two of night, strap down Buffy memorabilia tightly.
Lesson three, chicken soup heals souls... Not head wounds