Lenore’s Chicken Soup
Comfort Food
No matter how old I got, or how far I’d ventured from home, whether arriving back from hostel after a long term at school or traveling back a whole day after a semester at university—the first thing that greeted me at the door was the unmistakable aroma of Mom’s chicken soup simmering on the stove. Lenore had a way of timing it perfectly, as if she could sense my arrival. That rich, golden broth, laced with the earthy scent of carrots, celery, and herbs, would wrap around me like a warm embrace before I even put up my weary legs.
It was our family’s unspoken ritual: the standard fare for any homecoming, and the ultimate remedy when life felt a little too heavy. Feeling low after a heartbreak or a bad grade? Sick with a cold that left me sniffling and achy? Mom would simply say, “I’ll put on some soup,” and that was that. No fuss, no elaborate recipes pulled from cookbooks. Her version was beautifully simple, a hearty chicken base, tender vegetables coaxed to sweetness in the pot, and those fluffy dumplings dropped in at the end, bobbing like little clouds until they puffed up just right.
We’d sit at the kitchen table, steam rising from our bowls, and the world outside would fade away. The soup wasn’t fancy; it didn’t need to be. It was home in every spoonful—the quiet assurance that someone cared enough to nourish you body and soul. In those moments, with Mom across from me, ladle in hand and a gentle smile on her face, everything felt repairable. Her chicken soup with dumplings wasn’t just food; it was love, distilled into something warm and enduring.
