There is something magical about homemade chicken soup and when Tuvia and I were new to each other and I felt a cold coming on, he made me a batch of his chicken soup. I wasn’t magically cured, but the soup warmed my soul and I devoured each spoonful beaming and yes, I did begin to feel better.
Since then, Tuvia makes his soup at least once a year, usually for Passover. I make the matzo balls and we share them with his son and family in Hoboken. This year, we moved the soup to our New Year’s celebration. Of course we will have other holiday treats but the soup’s the star of the evening.
As Tuvia worked yesterday, he slowed down as I took notes. He cooks a bit, but doesn’t enjoy it, so he was more than happy to pass his secrets on to me. I can’t wait to fill my apartment with the aromas that now fill my nostrils and I won’t wait for a special occasion. When he least expects it, when it’s cold and dreary and he trudges up my icy walk to my home, aromas of my pot of soup will greet him at the door as he climbs the steps.
Now that’s an image to look forward to as winter gets closer with each passing fall day.
But for now, I’m off the store for eggs and holiday extras.