Playdough
After she comes home from work, my mother makes chicken noodle soup. The chicken, its skin coated with ground peppercorns, boils into chicken stock on the stove. I peek over the counter as she drops eggs into the flour one by one, then stirs it up with a fork. “Do you want to help?” She asks. I nod. “Just put your hands in the bowl and mix it up.” “Eww. Gross!” I respond, delighted by the chance to get dirty with my mother’s sanction. She swings me up onto the counter and I shove my fingers into the sticky mixture, squishing it between my fat little fingers. Mom leans against the opposite counter, watching me while she smokes a cigarette. I do not so much mix the eggs and flour as I pretend it’s playdough. It adheres to my fingers and I giggle. Mom takes the dough from my hands and presses it back into the rest. She kisses the top of my head. “Thanks, little helper.”
Panacea
Everyone in the house is sick. My brother, my mother, my father and I. My sinuses burn and drip, so I carry a wad of tissues in the pocket of my flannel housecoat, its mittens and ice skates appropriate for seventh grade. Dad is asleep on his recliner under a pile of scratchy blankets. Mom is hovering over the stove, coughing over her shoulder as she watches the contents of a tall aluminum pot. The ladle clanks against the side as she stirs. “Chicken soup?” I ask. It sounds more like “Chik-ed Zup?” Her voice is raw, so she just nods. I imagine how the broth will feel running down my throat, the heat of the soup clearing out my sinuses. She pulls the chicken off the stove and begins shredding it, removing the skin with a fork. Steam fills the small kitchen. I offer to help with the noodles. As I drop eggs in, a sneeze sneaks up on me. It flies from my nose into the noodle bowl. I scrape the flour-egg-snot mixture into the trash. “What’re you doing?” she asks. “I sneezed in the noodles…” I mumble in reply. “Oh, honey. Go lay down. I’ll take care of it.” With a sigh, Mom starts the noodles all over again.
Penitence
Mom puts the chicken into that same tall pot, only seasoned with salt and pepper. I lean my elbows against the counter. “Do you want to help?” She asks. “No thanks, Mom. I’ve got some stuff to do.” “Sure, sure.” She says. As I walk back to my bedroom, I imagine I can feel her disappointment, but I suspect it’s my own. I lie on my bed for a while. It’s not like it will kill me to help. But I’m feeling lazy, and teenagers are supposed to be rebellious. The deliberation goes on and on. Finally, I reach a decision. I walk back into the kitchen. “Sure, Mom. I’ll help you.” I say. She drops noodles into the broth. “Thanks, sweetie, but I’m almost done.”
Parallels
I come home from class, and Mom is in the kitchen. She seems frazzled. I hug her gently, wash my hands, and start making the noodles. Eyeball the flour, add five eggs, stir with a fork. The mixture is a sick yellow color. I add more flour and dig my fingers into the noodle goop. I squish it against the palms of my hands. I hold them up and wiggle my fingers slowly. I am the Swamp Thing. Mom giggles. The scent of the broth wafts through the room, carrying a slight hint of its taste to my tongue. I roll the dough out and cut it into thin strips. We pull the chicken out of the pot and toss the noodles in. Little bubbles of fat sit on the surface of the broth. We remove the skin from the chicken and shred it up with serving forks while we talk about our respective days, stealing bits and pieces here and there. The noodles puff up, lumpy and white. Dump the chicken in, stir. I pull the blue bowls out of the cabinet. The soup sloshes into the bowl as Mom ladles it in. She hugs me, kisses my forehead. “Thanks, little helper.”
