Jewish Penicillin

Drew and I are fast approaching the seven year mark–lucky number seven, with its highlights and hiccups trailing behind us–and I cannot help but alternately think of how many years that seems to be, and conversely, how very young we are. The past three years of marriage is what has really taught us a lot about one another, how we make decisions, the “right” way to do almost anything, and the sweet rhythms of tying your life to another. We both like traditions and patterns and I think that we both take a little more delight than either of us would like to admit in creating our own, seemingly secret, domestic rituals. We have promises to one another regarding holidays (something made or found, something indulgent), unspoken chore roles that we have adapted, places that the same kitchen items have lived in each of our transient homes and other little nuances that characterize what it’s like to be in Drew and Amelia’s relationship. One that thing that we have, thankfully, rarely braved together is getting sick at the same time. This past weekend, the flu struck, and in the midst of fevers and sniffling and perhaps a wee bit of whining, a new tradition seemed to rear its head. We made soup.

Drew is truly the impetus behind this, as I would have likely spent 72 hours with my head under a cover had I been alone, but something that I have known about Drew since the earliest weeks of meeting him is that the man likes his soup. Simple broth will more than suffice, though elaborate seafood creations are always welcome, and five nights out of seven, Drew closes the day down with a cup of broth or ramen (oo-noo, appropriately, in my family) and that impulse only intensifies as a winter cold sets in. Drew felt himself coming down with something and braved the store to begin a huge pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, or Jewish Penicillin as Tom Lam calls it, and I think that it’s what kept our three day flu from becoming a week long epidemic. We both stirred and sipped and I fished around the various parts and Drew “bold me about der bexture”–chalky livers and chewy something else until the fevers broke and life could begin again. While I think that I will more happily revisit the holiday traditions, and keep putting the garlic in its ceramic jar next to the stove, it is awfully comforting to think that even getting sick with Drew can be a good time.