Stone of Jade

United States

~ 16 she/her ~
Aspiring writer and artist. Completely awestruck by night skies. Apart of many, many fandoms ;) Reader, journaler, collector.
~ pilot pens and beat-up notebooks ~
#bluesourpatchkid
one half of the locket

Message from Writer

Hi! You found my page!! Just that fact means a lot <3
I mainly write fiction and short stories, but I am trying my hand at poetry. I love writing poetry but I am not very good yet. A lot of it is inspired from real-life circumstances.

Read some of my work if you are so inclined! Thanks! :)

ongoing dystopian novel: Traitors and Rebels
Find the links to chapters 1-8 here:
writetheworld.com/groups/1/free_writing/169037/versions/389599

If you ever need a review don't be afraid to ask! Link it on one of my pieces and I'll get to it as soon as I can!

Currently reading:
Count of Monte Cristo
and I am LOVING IT!!!!

Go check out my friends :)
There And Back Again,
Wishing on Dandelions
& chasing sunsets

Soup's On

June 13, 2020

    The front door slammed behind us as we hurried into the warmth of my grandparents’ house, all bundled against the winter air. Snow boots and coats were peeled off, red noses and ears were exposed. It was Christmas day, and most of my extended family had already arrived. I slipped through the crowded living room and into the kitchen.   
    "Alexandra Jade!" my grandmother exclaimed; she’s the only one who calls me by my full name. "How was the drive? Are you hungry? Soup's on!" 
    My grandfather scooped me into a hug, tickling my sides as my grandmother maneuvered between the steamy stove and the crowded counters. Fluffy breads, antipasto salad, savory roasts, pasta dishes, squashes, ziti and shrimp, Italian cookies, my grandmother’s signature Creme de Menthe cake, and pies of all flavors buried the counters. I took it all in, breathing deeply the smell of warm food. The whole house was filled with the sharp smell of garlic, the strong smell of bitter oregano, and the sweet smell of simmering onions. I sat at a little table and my grandmother placed a hot bowl of freshly made soup in front of me. She leaned down and gave me a hug, wrapping me in the smell of spices, before heading back to the kitchen. The vapors rising from the bowl and the broth in my spoon brought a warm and homely sensation throughout my whole body. 

    There are hundreds of families all over the world. Each has different backgrounds, cultures, and histories. Each family, no matter how many generations long, has something that ties them together. Families could connect by sipping Ethiopian coffee, or by chowing on nachos while watching a movie, or by baking Norwegian Fattigman cookies. Each family is so different, each food so unique. Food ties families together in the most loving ways. For me, one of my most cherished memories is my grandmother’s soup simmering on the stove. It may seem simple, boring even, but not to me. You don’t need affluence to make memories or fancy ingredients to make delicious food. My grandmother’s soup reminds me of gatherings with my family, the bustle of holidays, and the warmth of fresh food made entirely with love and a few spices.

    My great-great-grandparents came to America as immigrants, travelling through Ellis Island all the way from Portugal and Italy. Two generations later, in 1947, my grandmother was born. She grew up in a poor family, but was blissfully unaware of just how poor they were. They had food on the table every night and their needs were met, which is a lot one can say for living two years after World War II.
    "If you’re strapped for money, soup is the best thing!" my grandmother once told me. "And if you serve soup and have an extra guest, always add a cup of water to the broth to feed everybody--that's what my mother would do and no one could tell."

    I have always been amazed at the amount of food my grandmother’s small kitchen can produce. Every attender knows to bring their own Tupperware, guaranteed a minimum two days’ worth of food in the form of leftovers. But soup was never part of those leftovers. The pot was always empty by the end of the night. It was that good. The home-made broth, sprinkled with pepper and spinach, the juicy morsels of meat and her signature Acini de Pepe noodles. It was full of simple ingredients, but, oh, just a spoonful of that soup made anyone feel at home. Every gathering, every holiday, that soup was served. No matter what other delicious foods there were, I would always start with a bowl of my grandmother's soup. 

     "I didn't always know how to cook," my grandmother would tell me. "I had a lot to learn when I got married. You should start simple, like boiling an egg or making a pot of soup. One time," she laughed, "I bought a bag of chicken wings and threw those into a pot of water and salt. That was it, and as the broth simmered, it filled our house with the most amazing aroma. But I burned it to a crisp! I had forgotten it was on the stove and left. All the water evaporated and the burned wings sat at the bottom of the pot."
    
    It is hard for me to imagine my grandmother ever not knowing how to cook. That is what she does and it seems like she was born knowing how to do it. I guess I am where she was all those many years ago...a bit hopeless in the kitchen. But you don’t need to know how to cook fancy meals with expensive ingredients to tie your family together. You don’t need affluence to make memories. A pot of broth with a few vegetables and spices connects people just as well as a three-course, five-star meal. A bowl of my grandmother’s soup is the foundation of many fond memories of my childhood. It is simple, but something I will cherish all my life. I don't know what my future holds, but no matter what, I hope that one day I can greet my grandkids at the door and tell them, “soup's on!”
word count: 875

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