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.
