She made me drink soup

As a kid, I hated soup for whatever reason. So, on those fateful nights when I saw the soup pot on the stove, I would cry. I cried so hard and so long that my mother would give me a time-out...although, in those days no one called them time-outs. While I sat alone feeling sorry for myself, I could hear my parents and two older brothers in the kitchen -- talking, laughing, murmuring about the little girl crying in the hallway and her odd hatred of soup. When my time-out was over, I was allowed to return to the table. Would my mom make me a bologna and cheese sandwich instead? Or maybe my beloved musubi with ume? Nope. I got a bowl of fill-in-the-blank soup (that was once hot and steaming, but was now lukewarm) just like everyone else. Defeated, I drank it. The ironic thing is that my mom is a really good cook and I really can't pinpoint any particular reason for these soup tantrums. I chalk it up to just one of those puzzling mysteries about kids that has no rhyme or reason.

I'm happy to say that  my soup aversion is no longer and, in fact, I love my mom's soup. Frozen ziploc bags of Portuguese bean soup were part of my care package when I moved away from Hawaii for the first time. Homemade chicken soup is still her go-to remedy when any of us feels a cold coming on...doesn't matter that her kids are not "kids" anymore and have all flown the nest. For me, my mom's soup equals love and I'll take an extra bowl of that any day.

Happy Mother's Day...