1 ½ (32 fluid ounce) containers chicken stock
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger root
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 clove garlic, minced
1 large cooked skinless, boneless chicken breast, chopped
1 head bok choy, chopped
¼ cup dried shiitake mushrooms
2 (7 ounce) packages dried udon noodles
½ cup mung bean sprouts
1 green onion, sliced diagonally
2 tablespoons dried minced onion
1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro
It was my first time using a stove, and ten year old me was panicking. My clothes clung to me with sweat, from the heat or my own nervousness, I couldn’t tell. With shaking hands, I added chicken stock, ginger, chili powder, and garlic to the pot and turned on the stove, not daring to look away for even a moment. Mom said chicken udon noodle soup was a simple recipe, that liar!
The mixture started to foam up and a fresh wave of panic seized me. “Mom! What do I do now?”
“Add the chicken!” she yelled, like it was obvious. I slowly scraped the chicken into the pot, terrified of bringing my hands too close. When I didn’t scoop it in fast enough, she seized my hands and dumped the entire thing in with a loud plop. I screamed as it splashed dangerously close to my hand. She repeated this with the bok choy and mushrooms. I choked back another scream and tried to resist the inevitable tears.
I turned down the heat and let the mixture simmer. “When do I add the noodles?”
“I don’t know! It’ll be obvious!” I couldn’t take it anymore. Tears flooded out of my eyes. Why did she have to make me make decisions like that, knowing that whatever choice I made would be the wrong one? Perhaps a small, irrational part of me hoped that if I only cried loud enough, maybe she would act like a mother for once.
Alas, I only got a lecture about how lucky I was compared to her when she was young, that I ought to be more like my perfect sister… she would never let something so stupid faze her. She continued yelling while I added the noodles, fervently hoping that it was the right time, and let the soup cook.
Finally, my mom stopped screaming, just as I turned off the stove. I ladled the soup into individual bowls, and garnished it with bean sprouts, green onion, dried onion, and cilantro. The soup was delicious. My mom congratulated me — as per the unspoken rule, no one acknowledged the screaming that had happened just moments before. It was worth it now that I could cook. Besides, I was used to it.