Prompted by a recent tickle in my family’s throats, I decided to make chicken soup. Not necessarily a move that makes sense, when here in the Northern Hemisphere, this summer’s heat has grown more ravaging than ever. Yet, it’s inescapable cultural wisdom—when someone is sick, they get soup.
In sickness and in health. It’s typically a vow we make with romantic partners, but (hopefully) we make this agreement, whether it’s consciously or unconsciously, with the people of our blood and the friends of our hearts, too.
Self-care can only get us so far. Especially when we’re unable to care for ourselves, simply because we just need that extra dose of support, or because of illness or disability. Both self care and community care are essential to get us through the days of fire and ash.
My family has known its fair share of illness, and I care for and love more than one person in my life with disabilities. It has been with both immense gratitude that I’ve received community care (usually, wonderfully, in the form of food…why is it that soup tastes especially delicious when one is sick?) and quiet joy that I’ve been able to offer that care to others.
A dear friend recently created a spreadsheet of local food resources—organizations and farms that share free or reduced fresh produce and essentials. They plan to circulate it with their community, in the hope that no on goes hungry for lack of knowledge. We’re worthy, my friend reminds me, to receive.
This is (only one of the many) actions my friend takes to help co-create a sense of collective wellbeing, and if it isn’t already obvious…this particular friend’s bright, caring energy is an inspiration to me. They help me wonder, what are the things we need to receive, from self or others? What do we have to give to each other? These are the bones.
The following is an unedited excerpt from my memoir-in-progress. When my mother was dying from cancer, so many sacred lessons wove their way into me. Cooking for her in those days felt like a sacrament.
[Speaking of self-care: This excerpt contains potentially sensitive material regarding breast cancer. Please skip down to the recipe if that would best serve your wellbeing.]
May today be a day you receive what you need,
The Bones
Beginning with the bones, the chicken broth I build is simple. A yellow onion, peeled and quartered, goes into the stock pot beside the ribs, legs and breast bones. Several whole cloves of peeled garlic follow. Then comes the carrot, and enough pink Himalayan sea salt to make a small dome in the palm of my hand. I empty a gallon of alkaline, purified water into the pot, cover it, and turn up the heat on the stove. My aunt served as my mother’s caregiver before I arrived in Tampa, and she was careful to always give her this water. So I follow suit, filling up gallon containers from places that sell it—like Earth Fare—because we’re trying everything we can think of to beat this cancer.
In my own kitchen, I’ve experimented with different ingredients to make broth. Beautifully shaped star anise, spicy ginger root, coconut oil, leeks, apple cider vinegar, lemon zest, bay leaves, and handfuls of whole peppercorns have all made their way into my broth before. But this time my intent is providing comfort in the predictable, not novelty.
When I first got an inkling of my mother’s cancer, I was on my way home from the grocery store. It was nearing the fourth of July, and I’d filled my shopping bag with plump sausages and hamburger patties to grill, corn on the cob I intended to slather in herbed butter, Prosecco, berries, and heavy cream to infuse with vanilla and whip into peaks. One of us, I don’t remember who, called the other. After I got married, my mother and I lived with distance between us, many miles and hours of travel. Calling on the holidays we missed together felt like the least I could do as a daughter.
We chatted idly about our days. She admitted to feeling lonely and complained that my sister and I never came to visit. It was true, I hadn’t been to Tampa since she moved there. The juggle of caring for a family of my own made travel difficult. And yet.
Then, she told me about the lemon-sized lump in her breast.
“Have you gone to the doctor yet to get it checked?” I asked, incredulous.
“It’s probably just a cyst,” she said.
I’d hopped out of the car, and with shaking hands fumbled with keys at my front door while balancing groceries on my hip. The myth of the superhuman, “strong Black woman” – able to tirelessly work, endlessly give, and endure all manner of neglect to her own wellbeing – loomed over me like a shroud. At what cost had my mother been this woman? How was I becoming this woman?
My mother’s apartment kitchen overlooks her living room, and I peered over the high-top counter to check on her every few minutes. She’s wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, with her slightly swollen feet propped up on another smaller chair in front of her. A Christmas movie, something airy and light, plays on her TV. I hope to leave her with enough fresh meals to last several days and even more to put away in her freezer.
The cancer cells seeped out of her breast and spread to her bones. When the doctors told us this cancer couldn’t be cured, only its growth slowed, I dreamt of tumors attached to my own bones. The swollen, red, tentacled masses bound my mother and I together. When I woke up, my body ached.
I cannot bear this loss, I wrote in my journal on August 7, 2019. How will I find you in me? My body will carry yours, just as yours once carried mine.
A butternut squash risotto is next on my list to make, a creamy and elegant dish to help her feel like she’s eating something special. The star of the dish is the fried sage—if anything carries the promise of the holiday season, it’s sage. My mother always loved the holidays, and I want to remind her of them now. I tend the risotto like a finicky newborn, impossible to put down. The rice needs enough stirring to generate starch, but not so much that it becomes gluey. In risotto, movement is essential.
A ribcage can expand painfully during pregnancy, flaring to accommodate the growing uterus. It’s one of the many ways the bones move, responding to what life demands. As I grew up, her legendary stamina had shown me that being bone-tired was just a signal to keep moving.
With the risotto finished, I move on to chopping cauliflower, the base for a gluten-free pizza crust. I slice mushrooms, crush garlic, and crack eggs for a frittata. I roast spaghetti squash. I throw a mess of mildly seasoned chicken wings into the oven on high heat so the skin crackles. I cobble together curried chicken and ginger roasted broccoli in coconut milk in an attempt at producing a vaguely Indian dish. I even mix cacao powder, a pinch of cinnamon, almond butter, honey, and coconut oil together, pour it into maple leaf-shaped silicone molds and freeze them. It was the most festive, yet healthy, dessert I could think of. My feet ached. I stood still for a moment and realized my cheeks were damp with tears. I needed rest.
What happened in those next few moments escapes the annals of memory. I imagine my mother noticing me, and with velvet in her voice, she invites: Jasmin, come sit with me, while gesturing to the space beside her. Don’t cry.
But, I don’t remember.
I do remember this: Spooning risotto into bowls and letting the bones continue to bubble on the stove. Offering my mother a bowl. Sinking into the couch and raising a fork to my lips. Knowing that I’d paused, and my body thanked me, and this, too was strength.
Easy Chicken Soup with Greens
You might also be questioning whether a summer day in the midst of climate change is the right time to eat hot soup. So far, I regret nothing.
I realize that many of you probably already have a chicken soup recipe under your belts. Here, I love the addition of a leafy green of your choice (chard, kale, or even collards) which is my nod to the South.
Ingredients:
1 whole 3-4lb chicken, washed*
1 celery stalk, roughly chopped
1 onion, quartered (in my case, I used an Itala Rossa red onion)
1 big carrot, roughly chopped, and 3-4 carrots, peeled and cut into coins or diced
1 bay leaf
2-3 sprigs of rosemary (This is just what I happen to be growing right now. Thyme would work nicely as well)
1 tsp pepper, divided
2 tsps sea salt, divided
1 bunch of greens, stripped from their stems and roughly chopped
1 parmesan rind (if you have it around)
* These chickens were butchered this week! the farmers’ market lady assured me cheerily…though I hadn’t asked. When I got home to wash it, I held that chicken a little more tenderly than I normally would, reminding myself to pay attention and give thanks for its life. Once cooked, it did taste remarkably fresh, which was lovely.
The Souping
Combine the chicken, celery, onion, one carrot, bay leaf, rosemary, and 1 teaspoon of salt and pepper in a pot and cover with water. Bring the soup to boil over heat, then lower the heat to simmer the soup for 2 1/2 hours. Take care, and strain the broth into another pot (you can toss the cooked vegetables). Once slightly cooled, pull the meat off the bones and chop into bite-sized pieces. Add the chicken, remaining carrots, greens, parmesan rind, and remaining salt and pepper to the broth and simmer for another 20ish minutes. I added some cooked rice I had in the fridge just to bulk it up, but you don’t have to add starches if that’s not what you’re looking for in a summer soup. Also…don’t forget to discard the rind and bay leaf before serving.
Currently…
Reading: The Trayvon Generation, Elizabeth Alexander & The Japanese Lover: A Novel, Isabel Allende
Listening: Rowen W. White on Seed Rematriation and Fertile Resistance - For the Wild Podcast
The threads between food, community care, being deserving of self care are so true. And the language your own bones speak through your mother’s lineage is so tender and beautifully written, as a way to honor her, your grief and these threads you are weaving.