Mom's Recipe

Mom’s recipe was the only one he’d use. And the only one he- along with his sister- would ever really eat. The world was hectic around him, too many news articles littering his feed, all about a deadly virus he didn’t care to think about. He’d had enough death to last a lifetime.

Mark chopped the carrots, each snapping sound a testament to the negative thoughts chopping away at his sanity. It’d be satisfying to boil them soft, later on in the preparation. Next was the celery, and eventually, the onions, which most certainly hurt his eyes as he cried in the hopes of washing out the contaminant. Emily barely stirred from behind him through the whole process.

“Wanna help?” He’d asked before starting to chop the veggies. His sister simply shook her head no, continuing to stare at the ground. She had made herself comfortable on his beat up sofa and was content to stay there until dinner was ready. Or long after, if able. As the vegetables cooked in a pot of boiling broth on the stove, he brought out a pan to continue on with the chicken. He used to be so afraid to touch the slimy, dead animal laid before him on a cutting board (the red one, he remembered. Strictly used for meat, although he didn’t know why, it wasn’t like they didn’t wash the board thoroughly afterwards), but mom had slowly but surely coaxed him into doing it. It took many years of simply sighing and doing it herself before Mark would ever actually do it.

He remembered doing it for the first time.

Emily was chopping the vegetables. “A big responsibility”, he had told his little sister. In reality he just didn’t want to do it himself. She was nine at the time, he was sure she’d be fine cutting them herself, and she got through everything until the last piece of celery before cutting the tip of her finger.

His hands were covered in raw chicken he’d reluctantly been cutting, she was crying, and mom was nowhere to be found. Mark ordered her to rinse her hand under the faucet while he ran into the bathroom to wash his own hands and find a band aid. It was barely nicked enough to bleed, but he wasn’t about to let his sister deal with it on her own. And he was getting sick of her crying.

The sizzling of meat in the cast iron skillet brought him back to the present. Mark turned the heat down as he continued thinking.

The last time they’d made soup together, all three of them, was Christmas eve a few months before he had moved to New York City. Little did he know it would be the actual last. Not the temporary last, the actual, never again, last. December 2019 would be the last time he’d ever cook with his family ever again.

He stirred the chicken, pink pieces being replaced with white as they turned over in the pan. This wasn’t the first time he’d made his mom’s chicken noodle soup without his mother being present. It was a comfort food, a family favorite, he’d probably never stop making it. But never did he think he’d have to make it for reasons such as these.

Emily had called him, sobbing, hours before. Mom was in the hospital two days, two measly days before she died. At least it took her quickly, and didn’t make her suffer like he knew it had so many others. But he never even got to visit her. He thought he’d have time, he couldn’t get time off work to drive two hours to Woodstock New York, stay a couple nights, and leave knowing he might not see his mom again.

Instead, he had to live knowing the last he saw of her was Christmas, 2019. Making chicken noodle soup with his sister and his mother, laughing like their worlds wouldn’t be turned upside down in mere months.

He poured the chicken in the pot with the veggies, then cut the bag of egg noodles open and dumped them in, disregarding any chance of the broth splashing

How could he be so dumb, she was his mother for crying out loud! He should have up and left, even if that meant losing his job, he shouldn’t have let an hour go by since hearing the news of his mom’s illness to up and leave. Family was always more important, she had taught him that. Instead he thought he could wait until the weekend.

Until Emily called him.

She never sounded weak. The youngest to only one older brother, Emily was always tough. She had grown up wrestling, shouting, and fighting. If death would take her, she’d put up a darn good fight. Nothing would stop that girl- no, woman, he remembered. Emily is nineteen now.

Her voice cracked in the first sentence, a mere hello and she was crying. His sister hadn’t cried in front of him since her first heartbreak, when she’d come to him talking all about the boy she’d had a crush on, how they’d only been dating two months when he cheated. Those girly tears weren’t comparable to the heart wrenching sobs he’d been forced to listen to over the phone.

Now, he almost preferred tears.

Mark stood at the stove as he waited for the noodles to cook, but spared a few glances to Emily still curled up on the couch.

She was supposed to be cracking jokes. Teasing him about the girl he’d told her about, or insulting his taste in furniture, all she was now was an empty shell where there should be a brash, confident, spunky girl.

She got that from her mother. He shouldn’t have expected less after her death.

Mark only looked away from her when the simmering turned to boiling and he had to turn the heat down. He tested a noodle, found it was sufficient, added a couple spices he knew only from muscle memory, and dished out a serving for each of them. He brought them both to the couch with a dish towel so as to not burn his hands, set them on the coffee table and spoke softly to his sister.

“Em?” She turned her head up slightly, to look at him through the corner of her eye. “I know it might not be what you want to hear, but you have to eat.” And sleep, He added silently, noticing the bags under her eyes. He might not want to take care of himself right now, but he’d do it for his sister.

She nodded, picking up the spoon with one hand and cradling the bowl with the other, still set on the table. Emily lifted a single spoonful to her mouth, blew on it, and ate. It was a small, but welcome victory.

The two ate in silence.

Memories of their mother could not be erased, however much it felt like they should be. Right now all they could do was sit (together) in their misery, and be thankful they still have each other. The coronavirus may have taken their mother, but they refused to fall. Mom wouldn’t have wanted either of them to lose themselves just because she wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces.

“Tastes like mom’s,” She said quietly. It wasn’t completely happy, but wasn’t melancholic either. As if she’d already found a way to move on, and looking back on mom’s soup was a joy, even through the misery that seemed to overcome them both.

Mark chuckled, blowing on a spoonful of soup. “It’d better, I’ve made it the same way for like, twelve years.” They continued on in the quiet of Mark’s studio apartment. Well, as quiet as it got being smack in the middle of the city. “You gonna stay here tonight?” He asked a few minutes later.

“If I can,” She answered.

“You take the pullout, I’ll take the floor.” She nodded, continuing to drink the last of her broth.

Minutes later, the two were settled. Well, settled as in ready to sleep. Neither would really be settled until the pain of their mom’s death had passed, if it ever would.

It was hours later when Mark heard his sister’s gentle snores. Nothing was alright. Neither of them would be the same ever again, but she was asleep. Small mercies, he supposed.