I tug the door closed and head to the kitchen.
I’m leaning against the counter, waiting for my mom to text me back.
Finally, she does.
Mom
*link attached*
Here is the recipe! I always prefer blending a cup or two of the vegetables with some broth, then adding it back into the pot while the noodles cook. It makes the soup creamier and more hearty.
Are you sick, honey?
No. Sutton’s had food poisoning for the past 48 hours.
Needs some nutrients.
Mom
Electrolytes will be good too. Does she have any?
How my mom knows I’m here, I don’t know. Motherly intuition, I suppose.
I check around the kitchen and don’t find any sports drinks or hydration packets. Before texting my mom back, I order a grocery delivery.
I got some.
Mom
Okay, that’s perfect, honey. Keep me updated on how she feels. I’ll let her mom know, she’s been trying to get a hold of her.
Slept all day.
Mom
You take such good care of her. I love you.
I love you, too.
The soup is on low when Sutton pads into the open concept living room-kitchen. They don’t have a dining room, only a bar with four counter-height stools.
She’s toweling off her hair. Scrunching up her curls repetitively. A bottle of product is balanced underneath her armpit as she walks in.
“Oh.” Sutton drapes her towel over the back of a chair. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I made?—”
“Is that your mom’s chicken soup?” Color starts to return to her.
I nod and a wave of relaxation comes over her. Turning my back to her, I ladle two servings into the bowls I set out.
This soup was a staple for my childhood. Whenever one of my sisters or I were sick, she’d make this soup. We thought it was magic; whatever she put in it instantly healed us. That was definitely a placebo effect, but the soup did help. Filled with protein, broth, and other nutrients to help replenish our systems.
We’d rock-paper-scissors to choose who would play sick if we went without the soup for some time. I don’t think we ever fooled Mom—whoever it was still had to go to school—but she played along, making a pot. Even Dad would get in on the game.
Mom would be proud of the results. Everything in the bowl is perfection, down to a tee, smells and tastes like mom’s.
Sutton is sitting at one of the barstools, eagerly waiting. Her stomach releases another growl, loud enough to wake her neighbors downstairs.
