I’ve had a medical thing ticking away in the background for a while now. One of those surely this was sorted last year situations. Turns out… it wasn’t.
So waking up this morning with a solid hit of vertigo, pain nudging right up into the red zone, and a stomach doing absolute cartwheels was not the triumphant start to the day I’d hoped for. Not ideal. Not glamorous. Very much a lie very still and reassess your life choices kind of morning.
The sensible stuff came first: painkillers, anti-inflammatories, a bit of stern self-talk. I’ll be back up and running soon enough. But the real medicine? The thing I actually wanted?
Chicken soup.
It is all I ever crave when I’m under the weather. Not toast. Not tea. Not anything clever or complicated. Chicken soup. The proper kind. The kind that simmers quietly while the world carries on without you. The kind that smells like someone’s looking after you, even if that someone is you.
There’s something deeply reassuring about putting a pot on the stove when everything else feels a bit wobbly. A chicken simmering away slowly and generously, without fuss. No timer. No pressure. Just warmth, time, and the promise of feeling a little better on the other side. Noodles, herbs, and not a lot else.
Chicken soup doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t ask questions. It just shows up, warm and steady, and says here, this will help. And most of the time, it does.
Served with a freezer load of additional veg, lemon zest, a dizzle of olive oil if you have it, and bread torn rather than sliced (this is not the day for neatness), it’s comfort in its purest form. Not flashy. Not fancy. Just exactly what’s needed.
Today, the show can pause for a moment. The soup is on. And honestly, that feels like enough.
Even if it is 27c outside, from the confines of my apartment this was simply perfect. Thank god for a tiny freezer full of left overs.
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