The year was 1968, I was twelve, and Lyndon B. Johnson had just been elected president. I remember my grandma standing at the stove. Her gray hair was always in a messy bun. She wore no makeup. If you asked about her lovely soft skin, she would say, “My secret is Ivory Soap.” She hated girdles, and took hers off the minute she came home. Hugging her felt like having a cushion of soft pillows moving under your head. Since she wore no girdle at home, her stockings were rolled down, crowning her slim ankles. If you looked further down you would see her black orthopedic-looking shoes. I never saw her wear fancy shoes.
She was the closest I had to a mother. She was the one who let me stay up late, eat ice cream, and watch movies on TV. She was the one that bought me a dress so I would not be embarrassed to go to a high school dance. She saved me many times over. When life was especially harsh, she was like a cheerleader giving me courage and support. She helped me believe in myself.
Like many people who lived through the Great Depression, she knew to let nothing go to waste. At the end of the week the contents left in the refrigerator went into a stockpot to make what I called “Depression Soup.” I loved the smell of the melding flavors filling my nose. I often helped her assemble this weekly gift of leftovers.
In 1984 Ronald Reagan was re-elected president, and I went back to college to study social work with a concentration in gerontology. I had to take a required computer course, and my final assignment was to write an expert system computer program.
“Hmmm,” I thought. I had worked with expert systems in radiation therapy equipment. I knew they had to be written perfectly, and in a way that left no room for error when identifying something. Every possibility had to be thought of; otherwise it could lead to a bad mistake.
So after class, I asked the professor what the computer program should be about. He said, “Whatever you decide to write about, make sure it is something you know very well.”
I left class thinking about what life experience I knew so well that I could write an expert system on the subject. “SOUP! I KNOW SOUP!” I said loudly to myself. Grandma, my cheerleader from my past, had saved me again.
I sat down at my kitchen table after the kids were in bed and began to write my expert system program for soup. It went something like this: “If it is vegetable based, and the main ingredient is tomato, then it is tomato soup. If it is tomato soup, and contains rice, then it is tomato-rice,” and on, and on, and on. I had written a computer program to recognize every possible soup base and combination of ingredients in it. I nearly bored myself to death. I certainly bored the professor, because he told me so when he handed me my graded paper. But he also told the class I was one of the few to get an A, “One of the few who got it, who knew to look for every possibility.”
That night I sat in my kitchen with a cup of tea, and my graded paper. I thought about my grandma and her teaching me to make soup. I thought about life. I am not an expert on life. However, if I compare my life to soup, then the base is the family I was born into. My experiences are the different ingredients that are randomly added, but I can add my own spices. Those spices will make it mine and shape the final outcome. I finished my tea, made my list for tomorrow’s goals, and went to bed.
In 2008 Barack Obama became the first black man elected president. It was a success story that many people of my generation thought could never happen. I guess it goes to show what constant striving might yield. Constantly striving was something I am an expert in.
I was standing at the stove making soup, my hair in a bun with a few loose brown strands around my face. If you asked me what I use to get my beautiful skin, I would smile and say “Dr. Perricone.” I rarely go without a bra, and no one wears girdles anymore, now we have “Spanx.” A lot has changed for the better in my life since childhood, but if I need comfort, I make soup. I think of grandma and feel loved and safe. I create a unique gift from my leftovers. I’ve learned to take the abandoned, unwanted things that are left behind and create something good.
My husband came up the stairs to the kitchen, smiled and asked, “What is that wonderful smell?”
“Depression Soup,” I said. He pulled me close, kissed my cheek, and then he went and poured us two bowls of soup.
She was the closest I had to a mother. She was the one who let me stay up late, eat ice cream, and watch movies on TV. She was the one that bought me a dress so I would not be embarrassed to go to a high school dance. She saved me many times over. When life was especially harsh, she was like a cheerleader giving me courage and support. She helped me believe in myself.
Like many people who lived through the Great Depression, she knew to let nothing go to waste. At the end of the week the contents left in the refrigerator went into a stockpot to make what I called “Depression Soup.” I loved the smell of the melding flavors filling my nose. I often helped her assemble this weekly gift of leftovers.
In 1984 Ronald Reagan was re-elected president, and I went back to college to study social work with a concentration in gerontology. I had to take a required computer course, and my final assignment was to write an expert system computer program.
“Hmmm,” I thought. I had worked with expert systems in radiation therapy equipment. I knew they had to be written perfectly, and in a way that left no room for error when identifying something. Every possibility had to be thought of; otherwise it could lead to a bad mistake.
So after class, I asked the professor what the computer program should be about. He said, “Whatever you decide to write about, make sure it is something you know very well.”
I left class thinking about what life experience I knew so well that I could write an expert system on the subject. “SOUP! I KNOW SOUP!” I said loudly to myself. Grandma, my cheerleader from my past, had saved me again.
I sat down at my kitchen table after the kids were in bed and began to write my expert system program for soup. It went something like this: “If it is vegetable based, and the main ingredient is tomato, then it is tomato soup. If it is tomato soup, and contains rice, then it is tomato-rice,” and on, and on, and on. I had written a computer program to recognize every possible soup base and combination of ingredients in it. I nearly bored myself to death. I certainly bored the professor, because he told me so when he handed me my graded paper. But he also told the class I was one of the few to get an A, “One of the few who got it, who knew to look for every possibility.”
That night I sat in my kitchen with a cup of tea, and my graded paper. I thought about my grandma and her teaching me to make soup. I thought about life. I am not an expert on life. However, if I compare my life to soup, then the base is the family I was born into. My experiences are the different ingredients that are randomly added, but I can add my own spices. Those spices will make it mine and shape the final outcome. I finished my tea, made my list for tomorrow’s goals, and went to bed.
In 2008 Barack Obama became the first black man elected president. It was a success story that many people of my generation thought could never happen. I guess it goes to show what constant striving might yield. Constantly striving was something I am an expert in.
I was standing at the stove making soup, my hair in a bun with a few loose brown strands around my face. If you asked me what I use to get my beautiful skin, I would smile and say “Dr. Perricone.” I rarely go without a bra, and no one wears girdles anymore, now we have “Spanx.” A lot has changed for the better in my life since childhood, but if I need comfort, I make soup. I think of grandma and feel loved and safe. I create a unique gift from my leftovers. I’ve learned to take the abandoned, unwanted things that are left behind and create something good.
My husband came up the stairs to the kitchen, smiled and asked, “What is that wonderful smell?”
“Depression Soup,” I said. He pulled me close, kissed my cheek, and then he went and poured us two bowls of soup.
Header art by T. Guzzio. Original photo via the author.
CONNECT WITH CATHY:
Cathy Weiss lives in Connecticut with her husband Seth. Having lived a life rich with experiences, and blessed with two wonderful children, she has written a memoir. This story is an excerpt from Armored Oxfords, due out soon. Cathy’s professional career has spanned over 25 years in health and social service settings. Currently she enjoys pursuing her creative passions through writing, art, and dance. Cathy was the first artist to have work featured on a Greater New Haven Transit District bus for the Art In Motion project, which helps finance transportation for those in need. For more
information about the Art In Motion program, click here. You can contact Cathy at [email protected].
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