Parsley

It was the first cold day of autumn. Leaves had surrendered their branches, collecting in damp heaps across the frost-covered ground. Pumpkins crowded porches, and Halloween decorations began to sprinkle through the neighborhood. Maryse looked outside her foggy window and said, “I’m going to make some soup.”

An hour after her trip to the grocery store, she sets the basket of fresh vegetables on the counter. Yellow onions, carrots, and celery sat patiently waiting for the knife. Maryse heaved a heavy steel pot from the cabinet and set it on the stovetop with a loud, metallic bang.

“Phew,” she breathed.

She rolled up her sleeves on her black sweater, picking a piece of lint off in the process. She washed her hands with the new pumpkin-spice-scented Mrs. Meyer's hand wash. Nutmeg and cinnamon filled her nose as she lathered away the day’s grime. She dried her hands with her new witch-woven hand towels and grabbed an apron hanging off the rack next to the pantry.

Her deft fingers tied the apron around her front and grabbed an onion from the basket. Her hand reached for her Shun chef's knife without her eyes ever leaving the onion, and she began to cut through it. Its vibrant scent pierced the air, and the longer she chopped the onion, the more watery her eyes got. It was only the onion, she told herself. But after she had moved on from carrots to celery, her eyes were still watering.

She wiped her reddened nose on the sleeve of her sweater before shifting the vegetables she had cut into the pot with her cutting board. Sizzling filled the empty kitchen with noise, and Maryse stirred the vegetables with a wooden spoon. She sprinkled kosher salt over them and added a few more drops of olive oil before she grabbed the chicken breast from the fridge.

Maryse stripped the strings of fat from the chicken before setting it aside. She crossed to the freezer, shivering as she reached inside before she grabbed four, no…two quarts of homemade chicken broth she had made the last autumn. Her hands briefly stuck to the containers before she set them down on the counter. She shook her hands of the tiny droplets of water before opening the lids. She would have to microwave them a little bit. This recipe hadn't exactly been planned, she thought.

After five minutes in the microwave, the vegetables were tender in the pot, and the chicken broth eased out of the containers with a plop as they joined the vegetables. Maryse stirred once more, hoping the broth would fully melt before long, so she could put the chicken breasts in there to get cooking. Her stomach grumbled, and instead of reaching for a light snack, Maryse ventured to the wine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of her favorite cabernet sauvignon.

She grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard, only to halt midway. She exhaled and replaced one of the wine glasses. She took care in uncorking the wine bottle and carefully filled the glass an inch from the top. She took a long sip, letting the warmth linger before setting the glass down on the counter.

Her trance was broken by the distinct sound of bubbling. She hurried over to the pot, which was now boiling, and quickly lowered the burner. The bubbling subsided, and she made haste to drop the chicken breasts into the stock, making sure they were fully submerged. She set the oven timer for 20 minutes to check the chicken's doneness before continuing to cook.

While she waited for the timer to end, she drank her wine and gathered the remaining ingredients. A bunch of parsley was set on the cutting board next to a freshly baked baguette. Maryse thought it was best to get ahead and grabbed two bowls. Her hands hesitated. One bowl had a chip in it. She slowly set it on the counter and replaced the other bowl. She only needed one. She would use the one with the chip in it. She ran her thumb across the chip along its rim before carrying it back to the counter.

She checked the timer: ten minutes left. The rich aroma of chicken broth and fresh vegetables filled the kitchen, making her stomach rumble once more. She looked at her half-empty wine glass, frowned, then walked over to fill it up some more. She took her now full wine glass with her to look outside the window. The day was descending into dusk, and the clouds hadn’t dissipated all day. She watched as rust-colored leaves spun in a circle and a crow cawed once before it flew out of one of the trees. The soup would be done soon, she thought.

She walked back to the stove and stirred the soup once more. The chicken looked done, so she set her wine glass down and grabbed a plate to put it on. She grabbed two forks and began to shred the chicken. Halfway into the second breast, the timer went off.

“Can you get that?”

Her hands stopped. Bubbling soup filled the silence. Her own voice echoed back to her.

“Ehm,” Maryse cleared her throat before turning the timer off. Her cheeks were red and eyes glassy. “This wine is strong,” she said aloud.

She scraped the shredded chicken into the pot and stirred again. Her warped reflection looked back at her through the soup. Her face was blotchy, and her normal smile was set in a thin line. She stirred again.

Next, she needed another pot. She placed a water-filled pot on the stove and set the burner to high. Impatient, she covered the pot with a lid. While she waited for the water to boil, she retrieved a bag of egg noodles from the pantry and set them on the counter next to the pot.

"They have to be the Light'n'Fluffy ones,” she mimicked. The other ones were either too dry and starchy or too mushy.

She tore her gaze from the egg noodles and walked over to the cutting board to chop the parsley. A little parsley to freshen it up, she thought. It was the first time she would add parsley. Normally, she threw in thyme and oregano, but she wanted to switch it up. Her knife ran through the parsley, mincing it into small shards. It smelled grassy and herby, and it would help lift the soup.

She took another sip of wine and let it settle deep into her belly before she grabbed the bread and began to cut it. She ended up with twelve cut pieces of bread. Maryse looked up to the ceiling until the sting disappeared in her eyes and drank another two sips of wine.

She could hear water bubbling, so she went over, lifted the lid, and dumped the egg noodles into the pot. She stirred once before setting another timer for seven minutes. While waiting for the noodles to cook, she took a small spoon and gathered some soup. She lifted the hot liquid to her lips and slurped. It needed a little more salt to tie everything together, but overall, the chicken and vegetables cooking together created a perfect harmony of flavors.

This time, when the timer rang, Maryse slammed her finger down to turn it off. She then grabbed her new pumpkin mitts before lifting the heavy pot to the sink. She carefully tilted the pot, letting the noodles slide into the waiting colander. Steam rushed up, forcing her to squint. She never had to do this part.

After she was sure every noodle made it in, she set the pot back on the stove. She would leave the noodles in the colander because one night she mistakenly added them to the soup and never heard the end of it. The noodles had tripled in size and were so mushy they were deemed inedible.

“Wallpaper paste,” he said one night. “Always leave the noodles separate, babe.”

She did ever since. She grabbed the bowl with the chip in it and a ladle. She scooped some noodles into the bowl first, then a ladle of soup, making sure to dig deep for the chicken. It smelled so delicious it had begun to make Maryse’s mouth water. Her eyes lit up as she sprinkled the parsley over the top. It looked like it came out of a Food Network magazine. She placed a couple of pieces of bread on top and sat down at the table.

“Shit,” she said, “I need a spoon.”

She stood back up and grabbed two spoons from the drawer. She sat back down and realized what she had done. She set one down and used the other to lift a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She had to blow on it a little bit before tasting, but when she did, it was amazing.

The parsley brightened the broth in a way thyme never had. So much of the recipe had been inherited without question.

No one had ever suggested parsley.

Maryse smiled into the soup, her reflection smiling back at her.

A lone tear slipped into the broth, rippling the face looking back at her.

She lifted her eyes to the empty chair across the table.

"You would've liked the parsley," she whispered.