Chicken Soup

I made chicken soup for the first time last night.

I was not feeling sick, and I have not read the book so it had nothing to do with my soul. I simply thought it would be nice to concoct something wholesome on a cold July night, especially when I had nobody to see and nowhere to be.

"Dad could you bring a whole, fresh chicken with you tonight, I am going to make soup."

When I arrived home I couldn't see the chicken. Mum usually left it in the sink so that it could defrost, but she was overseas and there was no chook insight.

Disappointment surged through me. He promised he would buy me a chicken and he hadn’t. I was about to pick up the phone and blast into his ear thought the tiny speakers when I opened the fridge…and there it was. It looked as though Heaven was shining its light and an angel choir was humming soulfully. I was especially impressed when I looked at the packaging and saw that this bird was “certified organic.” Mum never spoiled us like this. That was when I decided I would ask dad to buy me things more often.

Suddenly I began to panic. How was I going to make this soup? I had planned to look up recipes on the internet throughout the day, although I never got the chance and now this “organic” chicken was staring me right in the face and I did not have a clue what to do with it. I didn’t want to waste this “certified organic” chicken and make tasteless gunk with it. I thought back to when mum had made soup. “Rice, lentils, vegetables and tomato paste.”

Okay, here we go.

The first thing I did was make sure there was water in the kettle. Then I turned it on. We have one of those fancy ones that sirens once the water has boiled. It sounds almost like a police alarm when you are being pulled over. As soon as I heard that loud, incriminating sound I knew that it was game on…

The chicken was in the pot and the water was boiling ferociously. I began looking through the pantry to see what lentils we had. This was going to be a healthy soup. I found orange kernel-looking things that seemed edible. I opened the jar and popped my nose in, wafting, trying to determine whether they smelled familiar. Nothing. I scurried over to the computer to Skype mum. I succumbed to the pressure of the “certified organic” chook and decided that I needed help.

“Mum what is this? Can I use it for chicken soup?”

I held up the large jar to the camera at the top of the screen.

“No, that won’t go with chicken soup. Just use rice. If your are going to use whole meal rice boil it before you put it in with everything else because it takes longer to cook.”

Okay. Back to the kitchen.

I switched the kettle on again and lifted the two-kilogram bag of rice from the bottom of the pantry. Rice was the first thing I learnt to cook. I was thirteen or fourteen years old, and whenever I was on school holidays and mum would head off to work I would get out the frozen veggies and the basmati rice and pretend that I was hosting a cooking show. I would even speak into the imaginary cameras in a British accent. As I got older I started adding more “exciting” things to my generally tasteless dish. Sometimes chicken and other times curry, but no matter what I put in or how it tasted I was always so proud of myself, perceiving myself as a “domesticated Goddess.” Mum and dad always refused to eat my rice though, so my sister had no choice but than to taste my concoction, continually telling me that it “had no taste” or that “it need[s] a lot of salt”. I have come a long way since my amateur days…I hope!

The big wooden chopping board was out now. First I sliced the carrots, then the spinach. There were no other vegetables in the fridge. I opened the freezer to see if there was anything in there that I could add to my soup, “Stir-fry mix?” The picture showed that there was cauliflower, snow peas, corn, carrots and broccoli in the bag. I hate cauliflower and this was not a stir-fry. What else? I kept searching until at the bottom, tucked away where nobody would ever find it was a scrunched up bag of frozen vegetables. There was not much left but I thought I may as well use it.

By this time my chicken had boiled so I emptied the broth into the sink and re-added water into the pot. I did this because I had seen mum do it. She told me that the first round of water carried all the gunk and fat of the chicken, and it is always with the second batch of water that you should make the soup with. I added salt, dried aromatic leaves and black pepper into the boiling water. I also started cooking the brown rice. “What was the formula again? Ah yes, two cups of water to every one cup of rice.”

The chicken smelled scrumptious. I picked a bit of the breast and put it in my mouth. “ Oh yum!” I am pretty sure that it tasted even better because I knew it was “certified organic.”

I removed the chook from the broth and slowly placed it on a plate. I imagined dropping it; just watching it fall out of the tongs, smeared all over the floor, with puddles all over and steam escaping from its flesh. “Get it out of your head.” I carefully placed it along the open window to cool.

The broth was still boiling. I added ginger paste, tomato paste, garlic paste oregano, basil and mint. Just a pinch of each. I also cut open a lemon squeezing as much as I could into the broth. Same with the lime. “What else can I add?” I opened the fridge and saw lemongrass paste. “Yep in that goes.” And then I added the vegetables. The carrots and spinach were swimming within the broth, coming to the surface with the bubbles. It was fun watching my creation come together. I added the rice and let it all the flavors fuse.

There was only one more thing left to do. I needed to add my chicken into the soup so I began shredding the meat off the bone. It had not cooled down completely, so I burnt my fingers a few times. Served me right for being so impatient, but I was just so hungry and did not want to wait any longer to taste my first real chicken soup. I added all the meat into the fiercely boiling soup, allowing it to mix with everything else. The smell that was searing through house reminded me of my childhood. When I was sick mum would always make me chicken soup. I felt better once I had eaten her terrific concoction, not because it was wholesome and hearty, but because I knew that it was made with love and care.

I turned the stove off, placed the lid on the pot and allowed the soup to simmer. I packed everything away and wiped the marble bench tops. “Let me check if there is anything else I can add into the soup.” I opened the fridge, looked inside the vegetable compartment… and that’s when I saw the parsley.

Gaps Within Generations

My mum’s Spanish Filipino friend, Maria, hosted a dinner party last Saturday night. The guest list was limited. Some might even argue that it was “exclusive.” My dad, mum, aunt from Lebanon, myself and Maria’s her 28-year-old daughter Monica were invited. That was it. Because she was from the Philippines, Maria yearned to cook authentic Seafood Paella for us, a common Spanish dish about which she boasted, saying “my dad says I cook it well…so I must cook it pretty fucking well!”

But cooking and condiments is not what this piece is about. What screamed out to me during the evening were the behavioral differences between the generations, and how obviously different Monica and I treated this dinner party compared to our middle aged parents.

I have always prided myself on having a “young mum”. She is into fashion, good restaurants and movies, and I love that I can share my joys and interests with somebody so close to me even though she is a whole generation “older” than me. But like I said before, Paella night at Maria’s acutely reminded me that she is not my age and she did grow up during a different time to me.

Lets begin with when we first walked in. I haven’t mentioned yet that I am 23 years old, even a few years younger than Monica, although it seemed we shared the same outlook on social behavior. As soon as “my parents” hustled through the front door, they put down the delicious ricotta cheesecake that they brought as a polite gesture. The next event was my mum declaring, “…We all have a drink.” So the middle-aged people did exactly that. Maria, my parents and my aunt sat outside with two bottles of wine and began drinking.

“Caroline would you like a drink?”

“No thank you I do not drink.”

“Oh Goodness. Mon does not drink either.”

Monica and I sat inside on the couch in front of the heater, talking and chatting over a bowl of crackers. Then they started smoking. Benson & Hedges, Marlboro and Winfield – such an array of cigarettes for only 4 people.

“I think I am drunk.”

Laughter.

“No really I am tipsy.”

We decided to join our fun loving parents outside, who seemed to be having a blast. We could barely breathe due to the thick layers of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, but it seemed as though my mum could not stop laughing and Maria was swearing and…well…acting drunk.

Time to eat. Monica and I enjoyed small portions of Paella and large amounts of salad. Our mothers had the opposite. And they were drunk. As soon as they had finished eating, they bolted back to the balcony to feed their other addictions. More wine and even more cigarettes…

Monica made herself a cup of herbal tea. I was ecstatic as I also really enjoyed a cup of tea after my dinner but thought it would be out of place to ask for one. She made me one too and we headed to the balcony, holding our mugs, to join our “cool” mums.

“Here come the grandmas with their tea.”

Laughter.

That was what it hit me! What on Earth was going on? The 50 somethings were drinking and smoking and having a great time, whilst the 20 somethings, also having a fine time, were holding mugs of hot and healthy herbal tea and sitting on a couch, under the blanket engaging in deep conversation.

I am not berating the older generation and praising my own, but I was surprised and stricken at the difference in social comportment between the generations. Is it because Monica and I have been educated, both formally and socially, that we don’t see the need to drink and smoke when getting together with friends? Actually, when my friends and I get together for dinner at one’s house we prepare healthy foods, cooking and including a lot of salads in our meal. Ordering pizzas or picking up greasy hamburger and takeaways is a thing of the past. And what about the herbal tea? I am sure it is not just Monica and I who are into it. During my most recent visit to the “Aroma Festival” at The Rocks in Sydney, the organic tea stand was extremely busy, as impatient 20 somethings waited in line to take home their organic jasmine and green tea cylinders.

Perhaps it is that we have both grown up in Australia -a developed country- rather than in the Philippines as Maria had or in the Middle East like my parents and aunt. In both these countries smoking and drinking is rife, and government interference with substance abuse and addiction is kept to a minimum.

Another thought that crossed my mind when thinking about the generational differences was how society excludes smokers and drinkers from “being with the rest of the group.” When you go to a restaurant you need to go outside to smoke-usually far away from the restaurant. Think about it. Just picture how much it interrupts your lunch or night out with friends. You physically need to get up, excuse yourself, stand in solitude (sometimes a friend may join you), fight the elements and then come back to your seat, where the rest of the group would have continued with their conversation or moved on. Tough guidelines regarding smoking have almost made it a “criminal act”, demonizing the smoker and turning them into an outsider. Monica and I have grown and up and developed our social skills in this kind of strict environment and for that reason consider smoking and drinking a burden more than a “cool thing to do.” I voiced my observations to mum once we arrived home from the party and she said that she had noticed the generational distinctions too. I explained my “burden” theory and she said that when she was growing up, in the 1980s, it was cool to smoke, and if you didn’t smoke you were an outsider. She explained how her friend had an electronic cigarette that omitted smoke, so that he may feel like he was “part of the group.” Boy how times have changed. These days nicotine patches, gum, vapor drops and nose sprays are rife, all to deter people from smoking.

I would argue that the two main causes for generational distinctions when it comes to social behaviors are education, which has taught us the dangers and consequences of an unhealthy lifestyle, and subsequently the benefits of healthy habits and social deterrence, drilling the “rules” so deeply into our culture that it has become apart of our lifestyle. No longer will I go to a bar and have an alcoholic drink at 10pm, because I will be at the bustling coffee shop, which is open until midnight every night, enjoying my healthy and refreshing pot of green tea.