Leaves of lettuce stood fluffed up, robust and fresh. The dill
showed off the most, to the point of going wild beyond the
border of the garden. While weeding, Grandma digressed.
“A good garden is like a good life,” she used to say. “It
depends on subtleties.”
“I’ll turn down the radio,” my mother said. “Please do not,
they’re singing beautifully,” said Grandma and joined in the
“And I’ll be the second chorus,” volunteered my father.
Grandma’s notes rose higher than ever. It seemed that the
instrument ignored the limit of its abilities. When she
finished singing, she swiftly rose up from the chair and
pointed to the boiling broth. We put vegetables into the pot
with pieces of chicken.
“Chicken feet add this special flavor to the broth,” she
explained. “But if you could see,” she laughed out loud,
“what sort of rumpus your mother made about chicken feet.
She ran away from kindergarten, when she had not gotten
chicken feet. If she had demanded the breast or the chicken
leg, but no, she fancied chicken feet! In rebellion, she ran
away. She always knew what she wanted. This was the first
injustice she experienced, or perhaps malice.”
Grandma raised a spoon to her mouth to taste the broth.