Sunday, July 19, 2015

mmcdxxiii

Frozen Chicken of My Heart

I had scrambled eggs mixed with
a microwavable vegan frozen Indian
entree for breakfast less than one
hour ago.  While taking the vegan
tikka box from the freezer, I grabbed
the cold brick that is what remains
of the soup chicken.  Maybe I’m a
hypochondriac, or maybe I’m not
a hypochondriac, but it pleased me
to the edge of giddy when you
dropped by after working all day
just to make me a homemade bowl
of chicken soup.  I’d had the sniffles
all day long and would communicate
only via complaints about coming
down with a cold and all of its
inconveniences.  “The way to a
man’s heart...” knowingly
proclaims everybody’s
mother, including my own,
whose apple and pecan pies
were absolutely bar none. 
But I catch myself standing
with this brick of a chicken
in my hand and a stupid grin
on my face for a while, remem-
bering that, when I was a kid,
whenever I’d have a bit of fever,
a cough, or a scratchy throat,
Mom’s solution, without fail,
was a can of Campbell’s con-
densed chicken noodle soup,
an iced-over cup of 7-Up,
and a few saltines.