She’s a quiet one and a joy to have around, always running to see what I bring to the flock. Her voice is lighter and sweeter as she sings her laying song which consists of a few sweet choruses before she settles down to her nest in the corner.
Naively, I believed the chicken soup my mother made was the best in the world, and to me it was. It a was perfect balance of chicken, vegetables, and noodles. It was not a regular occurrence either. Whole fresh chickens were very rare and costly at the time. Usually, we had to butcher our own…
The bread is dense and soft, while at the same time, strong enough to support the pile of scrambled eggs, now glistening with drippings, ready to eat. I marvel at how her eggs never get dry, they never get hard, and they stay soft and moist, no matter how long they sit on your plate.
Sometimes we rode out on my tricycle, she didn’t mind it. She was getting used to me and would come running to me as soon as she saw me walking towards the coops.
I am slowing down so I can appreciate the food before me. The food that grows for me outside, and the food brought to me by the labors of many other souls. To feel the enormity of what actually is behind every ingredient I’m working with. The salt flats, the transport, the farmer and fisherman. The people in the factories. The support network for those people. All the centuries of people who learned and taught how to use herbs and spices.