My Mother's Chicken Soup

Growing up, Friday night meant chicken soup.

My father would be sitting at the head of the table. My older brother would be at the opposite end. And I would be sitting in the middle. We’d put a small bench chair in between me and my brother. That’s where my mom would sit when she wasn’t running from the stove to the table serving us.

I don’t remember ever helping. Maybe a few times a year, me and my brother would dry a couple of dishes. Not very proud of that. Guess that’s why mom always said that Yom Kippur was her favorite day of the year: no food to prepare.

What I’d give for one more shabbat meal with my mom and dad. My father saying kiddush. Him running a knife over the challah that my mom would have bought at the bakery down the street. The bread would have been well-done just like my father wanted it.

And after kiddush, came the chicken soup.

Back then, I didn’t want any of that yucky stuff in my soup. No carrots. No onions. And definitely, no greens. Mom would sometimes have to pick a few bits of parsley that had somehow snuck its way into my bowl. Just clear broth with white rice. Maybe a small piece of carrot.

I’d add some salt as soon as my mom would put the bowl in front of me. Dad would say, “Taste the soup first.” But I knew my mom’s cooking, and I liked salt.

Anyway, making chicken soup has to be one of the easiest recipes in the world. Get some chicken with bones. Put them in a pot with water, carrots, onions, and parsley. Add some salt and black pepper. Simmer for a couple of hours. And you got chicken soup.

Throw in lots of love and caring, and you’ll have my mom’s soup.

For history of this family, visit Emlekezik.com