As soon as I saw on Facebook that Igor was sick I knew I was going to make him soup. But it didn't occur to me that I was doing for him what my wise women teachers taught me to do by doing it for me over all these years until later, standing in Derynne's kitchen tonight. Her friend, who I've never met til tonight, said 'that's really the best medicine, the vitamins and minerals cooked in from the whole foods.' Then she took a sip from a plastic red cup of wine that already had her lips joker purple. And she grinned and added 'and all that bright white light~'
It made me raise my brow with my own little grin because indeed as she said that I was adding the last little dash of flavor and also putting blessings of so much love and thank you all over that soup. This was the first thing she'd said to me directly all night. I don't know if she saw my smile. We'd been packing D's house for their move on January 2. They are going back to the dessert where Cam's tattoo shop is. Packing laundry boxing taping labeling drinking wine drinking wine making chicken soup. And dumplings. This gal's either got drunk second-sight or is wild-intuitive. Either one totally natural. One homemade pot was macaroni noodles with broth just like Judy taught me to make way back even before I lived on the farm. To that pot I also added kale and chard-pot like Teena used to make to heal me, when I lived in sabbatical with her those many long days at Chop. Also tons of oregano because Igor's sinus' are sick and for sick sinus', well that's one of the first things I ever learned working with herbs. Also back in the days that I used to salvage Judy's herb garden out on the side of her river house. And cloves and cloves of garlic. And other secret dashes and smiles. The other pot was homemade chicken dumplings, the way grandma taught me all those different times standing behind or beside her or out of her sight but her not out of mine. I didn't make hand-pressed noodles Pennsylvania-Dutch style though, but, with Grandma's recipe and a combo nod to Judy again, little butter dumplings that turned in the broth and before the roux to the warmest, fluffiest balls. That pot I made for Laura another student of mine, or rather as I don't teach them now, for Laura a woman I know who's far away from her mom's countryside home in Romania. My students, I mean my friends, so far away from family, during the holidays.
It is cold and clear the night before the last day of the year. Pon Pon walked me to where I was parked on Adams. He lives with Igor and Gustavo. And Bob, who I've met several times through them, and Leo too. Igor was in bed sniffling and laughing his wonderful Igor laugh. I made all of them take emergenC's and zincs the way Maria did back when I was first learning to teach and got so sick right after Christmas that year. Back when Judy first made me homemade chicken soup and showed me how. And her, and Maria my mentor teacher, how both those good women took turns stopping by to give me care. Pon Pon handed me a bag of Brazilian chocolates at my car and gave me a million kisses on my head. We could see our breath. I live in Southern California, it was almost midnight, I have a sweet artist's studio in the canyon that was calling me home. All these darling Brazilians. My sister D and her dear kids, moving away. I made soup or dumplings for everyone who took care of me this year, for all this precious family here who helped me find my way. My cherished friends. I am eating a bowl now. Thinking about the year that just passed. Sending cosmic soup with thanks to Mike, my dear friend, on vacay in the BVI. Remembering how in February in a panic I called him, then drove the Sonoma coast not sure what would be around the bend. Readying myself to leave and come here, all the way South. The hand-cut life I've glistened up down here since then. Crafted on nothing but pure love. Love and lots of help.
Love and thank yous. Which always work whenever you remember to cook them in.