For Grandma Margaret

I have just gotten home from the longest of long twelve hours that somehow turned into sixteen hours because of staffing issues nursing shifts. I am exhausted mentally and physically; and I feel filthy with sweat, tears, and many other things I should not be covered in. All I want to do right now is chop something into oblivion until I feel somewhat normal again. I want to not have to think for just a little while. When I unlock my apartment door I am surprised to find Grandma Margaret sitting at the kitchen table, smiling, as always. After a shower and a change of clothes I realizes that exactly what I need to do, is make knoephla soup for myself and Grandma.

What is knoephla soup you may ask? It is a German dumpling soup that you’ll be hard-pressed to find in any diner outside of the Midwest. Those who eat it are picky about how it is made and no two people make it exactly the same. Not only that, but it is a recipe that is impossible to make exactly the same every time that you make it. Grandma Mary taught me how to make it as a small girl, long before junior high and shortly after I learned to read. It has always been our favorite meal to share.

Starting with the vegetables, I carefully peels the potatoes: making sure that I cut off the skin, and only a small amount of potato. No conversation passes between the two of us, Grandma always knows when I needed a mental break at the end of the day and how most times I can’t talk about what went so horribly wrong due to patient privacy. She never pushes me to talk about it. Instead, she sits at the table and watches as I goes through the motions of preparing “our” dish.

A pound or so of potatoes later, I’m never too careful about the amounts that go into making knoephla soup, or the recipe. Knoephla soup is not a dish of measurement; it is a dish of feelings. The amounts that go into it depend on what you’re hungry for at the moment, what looks right, or what feels right. No recipe has ever been put on paper, just passed on from one generation to the next with wise words of, “Whenever it looks like enough, Dear.” Grandma always said that it was not a recipe meant to be shrunk or modified. It always makes a large amount and any attempt at shrinking has been unsuccessful, although making it larger comes out perfectly every time. This works well when you are from the Midwest and are a firm believer in freezing the extra for a day when you don’t want to make it from scratch.

I chop the celery, carrots, and onions quickly as Margaret looks on from the table; nodding her approval occasionally. Once all of the vegetables are cooking in a lot of butter (yes, it’s bad for you, but most comfort foods are;) it’s time to make the knoephla dough. My favorite part of making this meal, and also the most comforting. Eggs, flour, and a tiny bit of chicken broth get mixed together until everything is mixed together. The secret is to use only a certain amount of flour and add more chicken broth until it is right. Doing the reverse; adding set amounts of all three ingredients and adding more flour tends to make the dough taste just like you would think it would; flour. Some people prefer chicken noodle soup, others like macaroni and cheese after long days; for me it is knoephla soup. Creating the dough is one of the most relaxing things I could think to do after a long day and Grandma watches carefully as I knead the dough and rolls it into “snakes.” Only every once and awhile does she gestures to add just a little more chicken broth.

Dropping bits of dough into boiling chicken broth puts me into a trance. As I place the lid on the pot to boil for several minutes my mind slips into the past, the bad melts away quickly, and memories of standing on a stool wearing Grandma’s second best apron make their way to the front of my mind. I remember the hem of the apron dragging on the floor at first, being so little I could barely see over the counter, then I remember the awkward middle school years and unloading my boy and friend troubles over a bowl of knoephla dough; lastly I remember becoming an adult, and trying hard to make time in my busy life for Grandma’s house at least once a week. Though, once work, friends, significant other’s, and my own children came into the picture it seems that almost two would go by before I found myself back in her kitchen again.

As I put the finishing touches on the soup and turn off the burner, the memories fade and I am back in my own apartment once again. Grandma says nothing, but she has always made my day better, just by being there. I dish a single bowl of soup, butter a piece of bread, (because nothing goes with knoephla soup the way a buttered piece of bread does,) and sit down at the table. Grandma Mary has been gone for 11 years now; and on the hardest days, after the worst shifts, I always miss her the most.

The regrets become an inner monologue, before being spoken out loud: “Did I spend enough time with her? Did she know how much she truly meant to me? Does she know that I thought of quitting so many times and I didn’t. Not because I didn’t want to give up. I did: I did a lot. But I couldn’t because not only was an RN degree what I truly wanted, but because I knew how disappointed she would be at me for quitting?” Grandma Mary can’t be brought back. And if she were still here she would be very old, and her quality of life would be worse than it was when we lost her, but the one thing that will never change; no matter how many years pass in my life. And that is that making knoephla soup will always and forever be, in my mind, making dinner for Grandma Margaret.