Herbal Soup

My Mom's Not-So-Beloved Herbal Soup

The aroma alone could transport me back to my childhood kitchen. The scent of simmering ginseng and abalone, a peculiar blend of earthy and slightly sweet, always heralded the arrival of my mother's infamous herbal soup. It wasn't exactly a culinary delight, at least not in my younger years. To my child-self, each spoonful was an agonizing journey across a flavor landscape that veered wildly between bitter and strangely medicinal. I'd sit at the kitchen table for what felt like an eternity, meticulously maneuvering each spoonful into my mouth, a tiny act of defiance against the unavoidable.

My mother, bless her heart, swore by its health benefits. The ginseng, she claimed, was a miracle worker, a potent elixir promoting general well-being. Perhaps it was. I was certainly well-fed, and perhaps that's all that mattered. I remember the long hours spent at that kitchen table, my young mind focusing not on the questionable taste but on the ticking of the clock. The act of eating it was torturous, a marathon more than a meal. But somewhere between those forced childhood sips and my adult life, I stumbled upon a secret: gulping it down as quickly as possible is the only way to tolerate this unusual concoction.

Now, as an adult, my relationship with this peculiar soup has shifted. It's less a source of childhood trauma and more of a strangely endearing tradition. Every visit home invariably involves this simple yet complicated recipe. Mom, ever the master of subtle manipulation, uses it as bait, a carefully crafted trap to lure me back to her kitchen. The irony, of course, is that while I complain about it beforehand, there's a peculiar comfort in the familiarity. It's a taste of home, a link to the past, even if that past involves a lot of bitter soup and forced smiles.

The soup itself is deceptively simple. The ingredients are few, the process straightforward. Yet, within its simplicity lies a complex tapestry of flavors and memories. It's not just a soup; it's a story. It's a history of forced feedings and reluctant acceptance, of childhood rebellion and adult understanding. It's a representation of my mother's love, expressed not in gourmet meals but in a pot of humble, albeit slightly bitter, soup. And even though I still approach it with a certain amount of trepidation, I find myself strangely grateful for the opportunity to partake in this peculiar ritual, this uniquely maternal expression of care.

This simple act of making and sharing this soup, regardless of its taste, is far more significant than the sum of its ingredients. It’s a testament to the enduring power of family traditions, the bonds that are strengthened not by shared gourmet experiences, but by shared experiences, however strange or bitter they may be. And perhaps, in the end, that is the most nourishing ingredient of all.

I will always have this unique relationship with this soup. It stands as a reminder of my mother's love, persistent and ever-present. The simple act of making the soup every time I return home is an act of love, a tradition that continues to bind us together. Maybe I'll even start to truly appreciate the taste one of these days, but even if I don't, the memories and the love that it evokes will always remain.

Step-by-step

• Simmer ginseng and abalone in water until soft, about 2 hours.
• Slice the chicken and add to the soup; boil until the chicken is cooked.
• Add salt to taste.
• If some of the water has evaporated, add more water to make 5 cups of soup.
• Bring to a boil again, then serve.