sick soup

When I was small and not feeling well, my mother would make either chicken corn soup or what I came to call “sick soup,” which was basically rice with a bouillon cube and too much water. I’ve been sick these past few days, so when I staggered in the door bruised and breathless from roller derby practice tonight I reached for the Herb-Ox and rice. It’s amazing how much comfort a bowl of such a simple soup can bring. It tasted better when my mother made it, but, then again, everything did.

White soup in a white bowl on a white counter. Possibly the most boring picture ever.

It’s been seven years this month since my mother died. She taught me how to cook, so I’d like to spend October making the same dinners she used to make for my family. None of her recipes were overly complicated, but she knew how to take something plain and make it delicious … and she was, unlike her daughter, definitely not a dumbass. I think I remember a grand total of two times that something she made had to be thrown out because it was inedible — once because I stuck a thermometer into a pot of potato soup and it burst (in my defense, my brother told me it was a good way to fake a fever) and once because she opened the wrong side of the pepper tin and dumped half of it on the mashed potatoes.

Here’s what I have so far: chicken corn soup, porcupine balls, macaroni and cheese, and that fluffy Jell-O salad she always took to family reunions. Family members, please chime in with your suggestions and I’ll get to cooking!