Okay, so this is the recipe for my mothers chicken soup. My mom is a kitchen witch and this shit works wonders on any illness I have ever had. So let’s get to it Witches. Chicken soup to cure all ills.
- [ ] Jewish penicillin, a recipe.( this is what my mom has ever called it. Supposedly she learned it from an old Jewish woman)
- [ ] About a cup each of Carrots, celery,onion (or leek, if you prefer) medium dice (add more veg if you see fit!! This is very basic recipe)
- [ ] 3 cloves crushed garlic ( you can use more if you want, this is an approximation. Also garlic helps with blood flow so, if you are using it as a remedy you can’t reeeeaaaaally have too much)
- [ ] 1-3 bay leaves
- [ ] To personal taste : salt, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme and any other spices you would like
- [ ] How to do the thing:
- [ ] Early in the day ( this shit takes a while) take your whole chicken and place it in the stock pot. Just barely cover with water , add salt and pepper. Let it simmer until the meat is tender and falling off the bones. Use your handy dandy tongs to aid in this process!! Add vinegar and veggies and the bay leafs and other spices. Add more liquid as need it will reduce down quite a bit. Simmer for one and a half to two hours more (add more liquid if you feel it has cooked down too much) . Remove bones and serve!!!
- [ ] Note: you can add egg noodles to the broth at the tail end or make them separately and add later. (That’s where the colander comes in handy)Me, I don’t like noodles in my chicken soup, I know, I’m a weirdo.
The magic: While I cook this I visualise being healthy, I put my will in while I stir and think of my mother, warm and wonderful woman that she is. If you feel the need say a spell over it, weave your words as you stir ( clockwise). If you have quartz charged, set it near the stove or on the lid for the stock pot while you cook.
The first boy who loves you wears floods because he can’t afford a new pair of jeans. He can’t look you in the eye. Not until he asks you out your sophomore year. Sweaty palms. A crack in his voice. Don’t say no. I know you want to. I know your friends are snickering about it in some corner. But I also know that you like the way he is kind and gentle and quite. Even if you won’t admit it. Even if you introduce him to your parents as a friend for the first five months of your relationship. He is real, and he is here, and he is asking you to dinner from behind a greasy mop of hair. Yes, you say. You’ll go.
The first boy who loves you picks you up late in a car with chipped paint, but apologies fall off his tongue like rain from the sky. Genuine apologies. He takes you to a place way off the grid. Some total dive. You order the pasta carbonara, and he smiles with all of his teeth when you tell him it’s the best damn food you’ve ever had. He says sweet things. Funny things. You forget that he’s weirdo boy. Lonely boy. Sad boy. When he says he likes you, has liked you for years now, you tell him you might be starting to feel the same way. Might. But when he kisses you, just barely fucking kisses you, your insides scream at the sudden rightness.
The first boy who loves you asks you why you never talk about your family, and you tell him all of the gory details. The fighting. The drinking. The divorce. And he holds you until you forget where your limbs end and his begin. Eventually, into the skin of your neck, he tells you that he loves you. You don’t say it back, but you pull him close. You lose your shirt somehow. And then the rest of your clothes. And then your mind. It’s painful and awkward and wonderful before it becomes something more. Much more. And when you let yourself relax, arching into his touch, it’s very nearly everything.
But the first boy who loves you will not be the last boy who loves you. And he is not an idiot. The first boy who loves you will not let you push him aside when you need space. He will not let you break without trying to fit you back into place like a puzzle. And when everything falls apart, he is the only thing you know how to destroy. The boy with bright eyes and bad hair and the strongest arms will stay by your side through anything. But when you ask him to leave, rip his hands from your waist and edge him towards the door, he will go. Even though you wish he wouldn’t. Even though you don’t know why you’re doing this. He will go. Because the first boy who loves you is kind and gentle and quite, but he is not an idiot.
When you look back at him, sweaty palms, a nervous crack in his voice, you will still remember everything. He called you sweetheart. And babe when he was angry. And your full name when he was feeling especially affectionate. And even though it’s over, even though other boys have loved you, the first boy who loved you will be the only boy who holds your heart in his hands, feels it beat and breath without possession or power but a reverence you still struggle to understand, and then places it back into your chest and whispers, “Live.”
a messy letter to the boy who will never know how much I loved him.