Thursday, May 07, 2009

Chicken soup

Today I was up at the crack of dawn making chicken soup from scratch.

The smell of it followed me all day. My fingers like boiled carrots. Like I'd bathed in broth this morning. I splashed this fragrance through every corridor I walked.

It smelled not like my mother or grandmother — like me, in a place. Not the home of my childhood. Not my grandmother's house (certainly not in her later years). I can't quite place it.

Good for the soul nonetheless.

Maybe the smell is the smell of my house. Maybe my daughter will someday try to place a smell in her childhood, to pin it to the day her mother made chicken soup from scratch.

2 comments:

Suzanne said...

Re: Helena

I bet she will.

I know that I attribute the smell of curry and strong spices to my childhood home. Whenever I walk past an Indian or Caribbean restaurant, the smell conjures memories.

cipriano said...

Mmmmmm.... I want some of that soup.
If you've read my latest blog, you can see that I need to eat some.... healthier food!
But smells, aren't they neat?
Like today, it was raining for a bit, I opened the door and stepped outside [at work] and the breeze was wafting over from this clump of trees and I was INSTANTLY reminded of camping, as a child. The memories came flooding back to me.
From the distinct smell of rain and these certain trees.