My neighbor Chaya’s chicken soup kept Ben alive. His lips were locked when I offered him food, but I was able to serve him a few spoonfuls of Chaya’s broth. Now that Ben has passed, the Friday arrival of the soup has continued to sooth this old lady. The arrival of the large container has become my favorite sighting. Join me in this visual and aromatic pleasure.
When I raise the lid I see a clear golden broth housing rounds of carrots, quartered onions, stalks if celery, turnips and parsnips (a mirepoix- a classic French culinary combination) The vegetables seem to be fighting each other to reach the top. Bone-in, skin-on chicken is pushing the vegetables aside for a chance to poke its head out of the broth. Sinking to the bottom is a mass of slippery egg noodles. Spices must have dissolved in the lengthy slow simmering chicken soup requires. A layer of translucent fat coats the top.
During these cold dark days of bereavement, this s chicken soup brings me much needed warmth. A Friday night bowl of Chaya’s chicken soup has become a tradition.
Ethyl
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