Sick

There's something that's incomparably comforting about having chicken noodle soup when you're sick. The smell is inviting, the texture soft, gentile on a scratchy throat. I'm not entirely sure who acted as the first matchmaker and put the two together, soup and sickness, but their relationship is one that defies ages and makes every celebrity marriage look like child's play.

As a child in elementary school, I was unfortunate enough to have giant red plastic glasses and hair the size of Mount Rushmore. Because of my comical look, taunts and mockery came quite often. Did I mention that I was short as well? And roughly not even 50 pounds? Right. The TV was a more pleasurable companion than classmates, so I faked sickness very often. After a while my mother caught on to my constant stomach aches and didn't sympathize with my "I'M DYING" cries, but the days when she gave in with a heavy sigh and worn out look, those were my glory days.

Sick days meant soup and ginger ale. I'd lay on our old, worn brown couch, covered in piles of blankets, while my mom brought me whatever I needed. I'd rotate between watching "The Price is Right" and daytime specials on Nickelodean. When programs were less than desirable, I'd throw on a favorite movie, specifically "Cinderella" or "Grease." There's something about singing that always made me feel better.

Acting as the caring younger brother, Justin would hit me with toys until I was better enough to play cops and robbers or knights and ladies. If my continuing protests didn't stop, he'd resort to his own fun: burying me. If he was in a good mood, and actually liking me that day, he'd grab all of my stuffed animals and throw them on top of me, creating a comforter of puppies, bunnies and Fraggles. If he hated me, which was more than likely, he'd get his toy guns and swords and burry me under them. The sharp edges would poke at my skin, but admittedly, it was fun busting through afterwards, and demanding him to clean up the mess.

But there was nothing more comforting than the chicken noodle soup. Even pastina, my grandmother's cure all, couldn't compare. Like the desire to hit the high note in "Summer Nights," it's something that I cannot shake. So here in my office today, as I sip on water and Emergen-C, I'm making a can of soup. It's not the same as my mom made it, but it'll still warm me up. Plus, I don't have to be burried to enjoy it.