An Ode to Rome, Ottolenghi, & Chicken Soup

A decade later, I'm no longer afraid of the Jewish grandmother that haunted my Italian kitchen.

The day my daughter had a fever in Tel Aviv, the only cool spot she could find was in our fridge. I was supposed to make her either pastina in brodo or chicken soup but I didn’t know how to do either.

I love chicken soup but I’m afraid to make it. Today, I got over that fear, thanks to Rome, Chef Yotam Ottolenghi, and a sore throat.

This morning, after feeling crummy for too long, I decided to cancel all my plans and go to the doctor to cure an irritating cough and other symptoms that I’ve been battling since the summer. The extraordinary truth of the Italian health system is that a medical consultation is free and the doctors are usually terrific. The challenge is both securing an appointment and waiting for it.

After living in Italy and other countries for over 25 years now, I have learned that being a boisterous patient gets me much farther than being polite. So, I decided to show up at the doctor’s office without an appointment, let alone even a phone call, and sit as long as it took to have my lungs, throat and ears examined. I was determined not to leave until I possessed a prescription for an antibiotic. I know myself, and my weak lungs, and I needed a blitz to feel healthy again.

Someone was on my side because it rained this morning in Rome. When it rains here, even if it’s just a few, innocent drops, the city becomes paralyzed. This means that everyone is late, and many often decide they can’t handle the inevitable chaos outside so they renounce all appointments and stay at home. Figuring this was my window, I rushed out the door determined to beat the system and hustle my way in to the doctor’s office.

As luck had it, I was the first one there at 9am, and the doctor arrived shortly thereafter. She visited me immediately, confirmed that I seemed run-down, and issued me the antibiotic prescription of which I was dreaming. All within 15 minutes I had what I wanted, thanked Italy’s Ministry of Health for letting me do all this for free, and trotted off to the pharmacy.

After the pharmacy, I went to the bakery, and bought a delicious loaf of homemade, sourdough bread, warm and fresh out of the oven, that cost all of three euros. I carried on to the farmer’s market, and sniffled through soggy tissues as my nose ran as fast as I did to buy the ingredients for chicken soup. The veggie vendor took such pity on me that he sent me home with a handful of his own cough drops in addition to all my ingredients.

A couple days ago, my husband sent me an Ottolenghi recipe for chicken soup that appealed to him. He approved of this one but was skeptical of its dill (an herb that most Italians turn their nose up at — a bit like coriander). Once the recipe link entered my Whatsapp chat, A.I. hovered surreptitiously, and started throwing other chicken soup recipes into my Instagram feeds. My tummy grumbled while my throat felt sorer, and all I could dream about was chicken soup. Attacking Ottolenghi’s recipe today seemed providential. Assuming he makes this recipe whenever he’s in Israel, I thought I could manifest him into my Roman kitchen and shoo away all previous spirits that paralyzed me a decade ago.

Here’s the skinny on why I’m scared to make chicken soup: years ago, when we were living in Israel, my kids were small toddlers. My husband worked all the time, and seemed to only be home late at night and on weekends. I was in charge in the kitchen, which was a huge disappointment to everyone. I became the survival chef I still am, and nourished (please note the use of this verb) my kids and husband. We ate. Not well. But enough to survive.

This is what meal time looked like during our years living in Tel Aviv.

One day, my daughter, then two-years-old, fell ill. As my husband raced off to the office, he suggested I make her pastina in brodo, Italians’ go-to, favorite dish for anyone who feels ill, but especially little kids. He said it in such a nonchalant way that I imagined I was supposed to know how to make it. I nodded knowingly, fibbing my way to the supermarket. I could imagine how to make it but, quite honestly, I had no idea. I figured I’d buy some bouillon cubes, and some itty-bitty pasta, boil the broth, throw in the pastina, and voila’. Right?

Well, here’s what happened one Friday afternoon a little over a decade ago in Tel Aviv: I was standing in front of an entire aisle of bouillon cubes packaged in dark green boxes covered with the drawing of a lady in a Fifties’ bob and puffy sleeves rolled up over her apron. The ingredients listed on the small, rectangular boxes were all in Hebrew.

I grew up on Spaghettios in New York. My husband grew up on homemade gnocchi in Rome. When you marry an Italian, you’re not allowed to serve pasta in a can, not even to your kids. How the hell was I going to pull this off.

I heard English spoken near neighboring noodle boxes. An elderly woman who smelled like talcum powder and hairspray with thick Jackie-O tortoise shell glasses perched on the end of her beak of a nose was hunched over a pack of Ramen.

“Um, excuse me, sliha,” I said, spitting out one of the five words I knew in Hebrew. I inched towards her, securing the brake of my two-year-old’s stroller. “Do you speak English?”

“Do I speak English?!” she answered, leaning into my face, so close that I could smell her garlicky breath. “Where do ya’ think we are, Bejing? It’s Shabbat, honey, and the store’s closing soon. Whaddya want?”

My daughter burped. Pleased with herself, she shrieked.

“Atta girl,” the Grannie said. “Just listen to her complaining. She’s starving.”

“Bevakashaw, sliha,” I said, “I can’t read Hebrew. Last night, I made chicken cutlets coated in couscous. Couldn’t read the box.”

“Well, that was stupid of you,” said Grannie. “You could have asked someone.”

I paused and inhaled.

“Can you tell me, please, if these bouillon cubes turn into chicken, vegetable or beef broth?” I asked, thrusting a green box at the Star of David hanging around her neck.

“Who ya’ givin’ that to?” she asked, her marble-green eyes glaring over her glasses at my toddler. “Her?”

I nodded, avoiding eye contact, biting my lip.

“What are you trying to do, KILL HER?” she said. “YOU need help. And not just with your Hebrew. Follow. Me.”

She yanked my sleeve, and we sped past aisles of hummus, kosher meats, encrypted cereal that looked like Frosted Flakes or Cheerios. I had been living in Israel for the past year and the supermarket’s security guards who knew me by then grinned with sympathy.

We slid into first base: the butcher. He glanced at Grannie, wiped his bloody hands on his soiled apron as if this weren’t the first time he had seen her that day. He pushed up his sleeves and his forearm revealed a tatoo of a heart with “Ima” etched in blue.

“Shlomi!!” she snapped her fingers and tightened her grip on my jean jacket. “Get this girl a chicken!”

She shook her head back and forth, and looked heavenward.

“You should have married an Israeli,” she sighed. “Come.”

We started heading to second base: the produce section. My daughter gurgled between shrill shrieks as she sensed we were in for a ride. We sailed past the Challah bread and the warm Purim donuts that justified my new pants with an elastic waistband.

“Moishe!!” she screamed at the man stacking potatoes, and he cowered as she amplified her outdoor voice indoors. “Get this Ima, a carrot, a stalk of celery and an onion!”

Moishe threw me all three ingredients and we both blushed. Grannie beckoned me with a curling index finger, her wedding band hanging loosely on her ring finger. I leaned in for my next clue.

“Mami, listen to me,” she whispered, looking over each of her shoulders as if the Mossad might be recording us. “Boil that chicken in water with an onion, a carrot and a stalk of celery for about an hour, and serve THAT homemade broth with pasta in it to your little tinok. Nothin’ good comes outta’ a box, ya’ hear me? Watch how you’ll both get some sleep.”

She picked some lint off my jacket, smoothed down my sleeves, and cupped my cheek with her pillowy palm.

“There,” she exhaled. “My mitzvah is done for the day. But, one more thing: remember, you need more kids. So don’t forget to do your mitzvah today for your husband. Shabbat Shalom, sweetheart.”

I never did make that chicken soup in Tel Aviv because I felt defeated and exhausted. Neither Italian nor Israeli, I felt more American than ever, and I didn’t know where to start in the kitchen. All I wanted was that chicken soup I had as a child (which, yes, I’ll admit, probably came out of a can, and, frankly, it was delicious, as it almost always is if someone else prepares it for you).

But, today, I finally made homemade chicken soup in my Roman kitchen. Grannie was right. It was easy, delicious and restorative. (Even though Ottolenghi says prep time for it is only 15 minutes, it took me an hour.)

Since this morning when I woke up feeling awful, I’ve swallowed one antibiotic pill, nebulized a fountain of water, and devoured two bowls of my homemade, chicken soup. Without consulting anyone, I added ginger to Ottolenghi’s recipe, and, finally, I can breathe.

During the pandemic, I Zoomed with a friend who told me how much she missed her mom’s chicken soup. With all the perks of technology, it’s a shame we can’t yet Zoom chicken soup over Wi-Fi. I wish I could offer you a bowl here. Please know that I am not a chef but, if I can make this, you can, too. Grannie was right: it’s a mitzvah for everyone.

Here the kids are eating either Happy Hippos or Purim donuts, certainly nothing too healthy and rarely at the table.