I was about three days into a nasty cold when my sister called. “I made a pot of chicken soup,” she said. “Just like Mom used to make. Do you want some?”
“Of course!” I said instantly. When I was growing up my mother had an unshakeable belief in the curative powers of homemade chicken soup and I was willing to try anything.
“I’ll bring it over,” said my sister.
An hour later the doorbell rang. It was my neighbor Jerry. “I heard you were sick,” he said from a safe distance. “So I made you some chicken soup,” he said. “It’s my mother’s secret recipe,” he said. “She always put a good sprinkle of cayenne pepper in her soup; she said it brought down a fever.”
“How did you know I was sick?” I asked.
“I saw your sister at Publix yesterday,” said Jerry.
Later that afternoon I got a text message from Franklin. “Jerry told me you were sick,” he said. “I left some chicken soup on your front porch. It’s my mom’s secret recipe. She always put whiskey in her soup to break up the congestion. Better than drugs!” And I put his soup in the refrigerator next to Jerry’s and my sister’s.
Not long after this the dog began to bark and I looked out the window and saw an ancient Toyota with a flower on the antenna on my front lawn. Wondering, I watched and saw Colette making her way to the front door. I work part time at a nearby Senior Center and Colette, 89, is one of my favorite clients.
Now as she made her slow way up the driveway I went out to meet her halfway. “I heard you were sick,” she told me. “So I made you some chicken soup, just like my mother used to make.” As I thanked her she put her hand on my arm. “Mother always put parsnips into her soup,” she said. “That’s the secret.”
“How did you know where I live?” I asked.
“Franklin’s mother told me,” she said, adding that Franklin’s mother was her best friend, and she merrily waved goodbye as she drove across the front lawn, taking a couple of minor shrubs with her.
By now the refrigerator was pretty full of chicken soup and I was wondering just how long I was going to be sick when the doorbell rang again. It was another client, Ida.
“I’m not coming in,” said Ida, “but I made you some chicken soup.” She patted me on the arm. “It’s my bubba’s recipe,” she said. “You’ll eat it, you’ll be better in the morning. “ She turned to go.
“How did you get my address?” I asked.
Ida shrugged. “I went on-line,” she said. “To the property appraiser’s website.” She paused and looked around. “You really overpaid for this place,” she said. “What were you thinking?”
Over the course of that evening and the next day I got several more containers of chicken soup, all with magical curative powers.
“My mother always started by roasting a pullet,” said Barb, and I nodded, not knowing what a pullet even was.
“Mother never skimped on the salt,” said Lorraine, which proved to be a massive understatement.
“My mom never skimmed the fat off,” said Gloria. “’Feed a fever and starve a cold!”
“I think it’s ‘feed a cold,’ “ I told her.
“Whatever,” said Gloria.
In the end I ended up freezing most of the chicken soup since there was no way I could eat it all before it spoiled and by the next day I really was feeling better, although whether this was due to the chicken soup or the antibiotics is anyone’s guess.
I saw Ida at Walgreens when I was picking up another prescription.
“Your color’s better,” said Ida. “You see? My bubba was never wrong.”