Chicken Soup Jenny Zheng The door to the patio is open, and the fresh air wafts in. The white maple wood that colors most of the room blends in with the beech floorboards. Light fixtures hang over the countertop, but it is the natural light streaming in through the windows that illuminates the room. I take a step towards the stove but pause to survey my grandma’s bright kitchen.
My grandma’s kitchen holds some of my most glorious memories, including the countless times I have watched and helped her cook chicken soup. Chicken soup, made from so many steps and ingredients, is like a Gorilla Glue that bonds us together. Each slice of carrot, each notch in the wooden cutting board, and each handful of celery tossed into the bubbling pot form another drop of glue. Chicken soup is a dish that requires both time and patience. When I wash and peel the onions, and my grandma chops them into thin slivers, these long moments allow for some storytelling, leading me to love my grandma and our family even more. She tells me stories from her childhood, including her father fishing and bringing home the fish for dinner. One of my favorite stories that she often shares is when her grandpa brought home a cat. She loved the cat, but her mom didn’t. The cat seemed to know this and would hide under the bed every time it heard my great-grandma coming into the room and would come out when she left. These tales still make my face crinkle up in laughter every time I listen to them. After the soup cooks and cools, we call in the rest of our family to try it. Each spoonful of chicken and soft egg noodles mixed into a flavorful broth builds up the flavors in my mouth until I’m left with an empty bowl. We share our love with each other, just like we share the fruits of our labor in the kitchen with the rest of our family. When I was younger, and my clumsy hands were not yet trusted to hold a cutting knife, I would get on my tippy-toes and watch my grandma as she chopped the vegetables, measured the spices, and diced the chicken. We would listen to my grandma’s favorite songs as we watched the pot shake and tremble. Now that I am older, I chop and slice with my grandma, chat with her as we wait for the soup to cook, and sing along to the songs I have heard numerous times. I realize how I have bonded with the room as well, seeing that many new additions were ones that I had suggested to be added. I see the shag rug that I helped choose when I could barely run, the plants that I begged my grandparents to keep when I started fifth grade, and the lights that I changed when I got to middle school. The pots on the stove glow, and the shiny kitchen knives, from the meat cleaver to the steak knives, all hang in an orderly row. Because I have grown older, I understand more of what my grandma says and does, and I can also realize how much I have grown to look up to her and to love her. I remember the well-lit room, the clean patio, and the cream-colored floral plates and bowls as if they were right before my eyes because I have touched this room and because I have spent time with my grandma in this room that holds so much joy. Over many years, I have had chicken soup in various restaurants. And even though these places are highly praised and loved by many, their chicken soup can never compare to my grandma’s. Simply put, my grandma’s has a mix of secret ingredients that no restaurant could ever purchase: the kitchen air, family love, and an ever-strengthening glue.
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