I’ve had gastro for the last few days and my fiance has been looking after me so very well. Normally I eat lots of vegetables and fruit and salads and since I’ve been sick I’ve asked my partner to make me mashed potato, soup, and crackers (okay, he didn’t make the crackers – but you know what I mean) because that’s all I’ve been able to stomach. I went to the doctor yesterday and she told me to eat bland food like mashed potato, crackers and soup! Gosh I love to be good!!
Anyway! Last night I felt like chicken noodle soup and it reminded me of my Italian grandmother and her amazing cooking that I was blessed to experience the entire time I was growing up. She’s very old now and not up to cooking, so the family reminisce about it and do our best it match it (but invariably fail). She used to scoff in true Italian mama style at anything that wasn’t homemade from scratch – ie the ingredients came straight from the backyard and there is nothing else and never never ever a recipe of any kind. I remember her scoffing at packet soup once (one of us must have been brave enough to mention it, not only in her presence, but in her kitchen) and saying “Chicken Roodle Soop?! Pooh!”
From then on she used to call me Chicken Roodle Soop whenever she was scolding me or trying to make a point that something was ridiculous or not the way it should be done (ie her way – and yes – points such as these were usually made, at the very least, hourly). And when you think about it, it makes wonderful sense. I mean to her, anything that came out of a packet was a terrible indictment of the times. When I told her at the ripe old age of 15 that I was now a vegetarian, she looked at me with such skepticism and said “What you do that for you silly Chicken Roodle Soup?!” and promptly put a huge plate of steaming hot spaghetti bolognese in front of me, pinched my cheek, ruffled my hair and walked off to the massive wood stove shaking her sage head.
I’m tempted to call her and tell her what I had for dinner last night…