Thursday, March 27, 2008

Writing while suffering the plague

Or: Letting your husband take care of you

Obviously this is not my strong point!

Last week, when I was starting to feel under the weather, my husband asks, “Do you want me to make chicken soup?”
We’d just finished St. Paddy’s Day and there was a bunch of leftovers and Easter was coming up, so I knew we’d have a ton of food around. I said no. Two days later, when I’m dragging my butt behind me with both hands, he asks again. Thinking of the ham and scalloped potatoes we’re making the next day, I again said no.
There’s only so much room in the fridge, right? My mistake.
Monday morning I couldn’t even get out of bed.

I have allergies, so normally I pop my daily Claritan and I go on my merry way. While traveling at the beginning of the month, I ended up buying Zyrtec, and instead of a prescription nasal spray, I picked up Afrin.
Zyrtec made me tired and crabby, and Afrin gave me a sinus infection.
The doc yesterday told me that they are taught in med school that Afrin, after three days of consecutive use, can do this – they all know it, but where is the freaking warning on the bottle??? Because I’m no stranger to sinus infections, and this one threw my ass down to the mat, had its knee in my back and was singing the Victory song from Rocky ten thousand.
My teeth ached so bad I thought they were going to fall out, I had laryngitis for three days straight, and I alternated from hot flashes to chills that three blankets and two heating pads couldn’t reach. Along with my antibiotic and cough medicine with codeine, I knew it was time for nature’s penicillin.

My husband makes the best homemade chicken soup in the world. Before he bought the smoker, the only thing he ever made was chicken. Since I burned Top Ramen, chicken was damn good J Anyway, Greg has this recipe that he learned from his dad. He has a system, and you never mess with it.
At first it’s easy to mock the method – you can’t cut the vegetables when you put them in the soup. He lines everything up, peels the carrots (we found out that pre-peeled bagged baby carrots don’t pack the flavor) peels the leek, the onion, and washes the parsley. Everything is clean and piled on the plate ready to be added once he, the master soup chef, deems it time. Then nobody is allowed near the soup (no matter how good it smells, and it does) until the chicken is cooked – but just because the chicken is cooked doesn’t mean that the broth is finished. So you get torturous little salty bites of chicken to wet your palate as you wait for another half an hour…while the pasta cooks.
All of this long, drawn out temptation is worth it as soon as you get that first bowl. That broth hit my tongue, soothed my sore throat, and eased down my aching esophagus – immediately making me feel better.

I woke up this morning knowing I was going to live (Allelujai!) and had to remember how good that soup was as my loving and talented husband said, “You should have let me make the soup last week! When are you going to learn?”

After twenty years…

I love you honey!


moonmangsh said...

I have tears in my eyes. I don't know if it is because I am moved by your comments of me or you are just too darn funny for your own good......I think the latter!

I'm glad you are going to live. You make my life worth living!

Traci said...

that is heady stuff...:)