Last November, I finally got my chicken noodle soup exactly the way I always wanted it but when I brought it to the table, I couldn’t eat it. This happens sometimes. Sometimes I just spend too much time working on a dish and I’m rather sick of it by the time we eat it, in only the way that a person with first world problems can be. I chalked it up to that. I did not chalk it up to the pregnancy I’d found out about approximately 15 minutes prior, because my mother never had morning sickness with either me or my sister, I never had morning sickness with my son, and certainly didn’t think it was going to happen because of a 16 day-old rapidly dividing and already beloved cluster of cells.
The next night, the leftovers, wasn’t much better. How had I ever liked something so revolting? “Slippery noodles… soft chickeny bits of celery… sweet supple carrots… everything buttery and swaddling and rich…” I tried to explain to my husband who cracked up at how I could make even the most delicious things sound like a shortcut to the vomitorium. The problem was, my son went nuts for it. Every day he came home from school and hopefully asked “Are we having chicken noodle soup for dinner?” and every day, was crushed to hear the word no. My husband finally took pity on him a couple weeks later and made it from my recipe. I hid in the bedroom until the smell was gone. And so it went for the next 38 dreary weeks. Food was uninteresting or downright terrible. I was gloomy because I never realized how much my motivation here is driven by hunger and a now-elusive appetite. I wondered if it would always be this way.
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