Pot of Gold
- May 28
- 4 min read
By Ed Friedman
PROMPT — What is Love?
I’m told I make an excellent chicken soup.
Some people, upon hearing this, reference my Eastern European/Jewish heritage, some genetic predisposition, or the fact that I’m a good cook. None of those is true. I learned how to make chicken soup from Rose, the Italian mother of my former wife. I always loved my mother-in-law’s chicken soup.
One day, soon after my girlfriend Roseanne and I announced that we were getting married, her sister Emma sidled up to me at a family gathering and asked if she could speak with me privately. When we were out of earshot of family members, she asked, “What do you think about taking the upstairs apartment in my parents’ house? The renters moved out, and it’s vacant.”
Most people would recoil at the idea of living mere steps away from their in-laws, but I felt differently.
No doubt my attitude was informed by my own family experience, which was fractured and toxic. My siblings and I had the cliché of the wicked stepmother. When she came into our lives, Evilene, as I referred to her, was simply mean, nasty, and without one ounce of maternal instinct. Eventually, she tired of this role and simply ignored us. We all left home in our teens, ready or not. Roseanne’s family, in contrast, was close-knit and warm. Every Sunday, Roseanne, her siblings, and their families would gather for dinner. There were easily fifteen people cramped into a small space, with no one anxious to leave. Despite the cultural and religious differences (which, at the time, held a lot more weight than they do now), I was welcomed into the clan. So, taking the apartment was an easy decision for me. Truth be told, Roseanne was more skeptical, but we went ahead and moved in. And I found the family I was missing.
Days were long for me when we were first married. I was working full-time and going to college at night, but every Monday, when I’d get home from night school, there would be a big pot of chicken soup on the landing leading up to our apartment. In retrospect, there was nothing unusual about Rose’s chicken soup apart from pasta, which was something to which I was not accustomed. It was a very specific pasta called acini pepe, smaller than orzo but larger than pastina.
Nothing was ever said about the soup on the landing. The pot just appeared every Monday night. There was such a sweetness to that act that I’m sure the goodness must have permeated the soup. No matter what kind of day I had, seeing that big silver pot and knowing what delights awaited me just by turning on the stove for a few minutes made everything better. I don’t remember when, but I must have asked for the recipe at some point.
This wasn’t the only example of Rose’s kindness. Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d go downstairs, and she would be the only other person awake—and without asking, she would just automatically put the kettle on for tea as soon as I came through the kitchen door. (It should be mentioned here that at the time, I was the only person in the whole extended family who didn’t drink coffee). It may seem like a small thing, but that quality of caring for someone to the point that you not only know what they need, but provide it without them having to ask, was what I always missed in my life. Rose would ask me about school and work. She patiently listened as I related the details of my boring job, and she was always encouraging. Alas, the marriage lasted only two years but ended with little rancor. We were just too young and too naive.
I’ve often joked that if I got along as well with my wife as I did with my in-laws, I’d still be married to her.
One of the first things I purchased for my next apartment was a big, five-quart pot. I was determined to retain some vestige of my temporary family. And so, I began my own ritual: Saturday, I would shop for ingredients; and Sunday, I’d prepare and cook the soup (Rose always said it’s better if you have it the day after). Monday nights, when I got home from work, I’d take the silver pot out of the refrigerator, skim the fat off the top, and heat the soup. It was good, and I was always glad I made it. Of course, I included the pasta.
But there was one missing ingredient.
Ed Friedman's collection of essays and short fiction I Will Not Be Ignored is published by HumorOutcasts Press. His work has been seen in Bright Flash Literary Review, Slackjaw, Fleas on the Dog, The Haven, Crow’s Feet, Libretto Magazine, Mocking Owl Roost, Bronx Memoir Project, Shady Grove Literary, Fresh Words, Wicked Shadow Press, New Croton Review, Hello, Godot, Literature Today, and Potato Soup Journal. Ed writes from Peekskill, NY.
