“You’re actually going to eat that?”
Gingerly, careful not to touch it’s fiery lip, I slid the bowl of steaming cream-of-chicken soup out the microwave.
“Yeah!”, I answered. “It’s only got one-hundred-twenty calories.” I pushed the red and white can in her direction.
Slowly stirring to break up small clumps of chickeny goo, I looked up to see a look of utter distaste on Susan’s face.
“What?”
“I just never saw anyone eat it. I mean I use it in recipes and all, but I’ve never actually eaten it.”
I slowly walked the hot soup to my designated spot at the break table and joined another co-worker who was arranging chicken salad atop a concoction of apple chunks and red pepper strips.
“Apples and peppers?”, I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh yes!”, she exclaimed. “I make my chicken salad the same way I make my potato salad. I dump in anything I can find in my refrigerator.”
I sat with that a while before turning the conversation back to the soup.
Sipping first, I offered, “I just remembered how I got started eating cream-of-chicken soup.”
Two interested faces turned my way.
“My mother used to give it to us when we were sick. She started with chicken noodle, and when that stayed down, we graduated to this.” I slurped another spoonful.
“And ginger ale!”, I said after swallowing.
“My mother gave us ginger ale.” Susan concurred, still casting a doubtful eye in the direction of my bowl.
“And not even good ginger ale, just regular ginger ale. It was one of my favorite things about being sick.” As I spoke, I flashed on the sickroom of my childhood.
Days spent home from school were spent in the bed, and Mom had a television, reserved for just this occasion. After my sisters had left for the bus stop, she pushed it in on the rolling cart it lived in. It was the only time we ever had the television all to ourselves. The door to the bedroom remained closed unless she opened it to bring in ginger ale, soup, aspirin, and/or Pepto-Bismol. I think about those days often, even thirty-plus years later. It was the only time I had Mom all to myself, and the time when she seemed the most caring.
“We had broth.”, I realized Susan was speaking.
What ensued was a discussion of forgotten culinary delights. The fish sticks that were a mainstay of many a baby-boomer’s Friday night, as Mom finished applying her lipstick, while Dad left to pick up the baby sitter. The SpaghettiOs, which Mom later insisted she had never served us at the picnic table while on vacation at the beach. But I can still remember how good they tasted paired with pan-fried luncheon loaf. And pimento cheese! Specifically toasted pimento cheese sandwiches and the pimento cheese toast Dad baked in the oven on Saturday mornings.
We came away with the realization that dietary habits have changed drastically over the past thirty years, and probably for the best. At the same time though, I wonder at the loss of simplicity and routine inherent in the foods of our childhood.
Our children may have a finer grade of food, but I wonder if it loses something in the translation. My children never experienced the camaraderie of Friday nights in front of the television, watching the same sit-coms for years on end, after finishing a plate of breaded, compressed fish parts. They won’t remember the anticipation of smelling the scent of rosewater that preceded Mrs. Jordan into the house, or the sense of awe when Mom finally emerged from the back of the house, having traded her uniform of polyester pull-ons for a skirt and heels.
A cherry armoire hides my son’s television from view, but it’s always there. When he stays home from school, he does so in the bed, watching the same television he always watches. And the door to his bedroom remains closed until I open it, bearing a glass of ginger ale, a cup of soup, or ibuprofen.
A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off to spend with my son. I called him in for lunch, and as he washed his hands, I filled his plate with greasy, brown fish sticks.
“Mom! We never eat this stuff!”, he exclaimed through a grin.
“Is it ok?”, I asked.
“Yeah!”, he exuded.
Yeah…
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
