I took off the last week of summer and stayed home with
Tim. We cleaned the house, trained Jiu-Jitsu, went fishing
and crabbing, watched videos, and cooked meals together.

Tuesday night, Tim caught flu and so did I. The next
morning, I sneezed but recovered very well within a couple
of hours. The boy, however, was still suffering. He wanted
some soup and I knew just the best kind for a sick kid.

I dripped water into a bowl of wheat flour*, churned
vigorously with the chopsticks to make small lump pieces,
and sifted them out. I did this two more rounds with the
left-over flour until most of it was made into evenly small
pieces.

Tim brought three tomatos from our little garden, and I diced
and added them and some cabbage to a boiling chicken
stock. I poured in the fluffy flour lumps and boiled a few
more minutes. I cut up some green onions, cilantro, lots of
ginger and garlic, and mixed them with vinegar, soy sauce,
and sesame oil. I cracked two eggs into the boiling soup and
we were done. The smell was wonderful and eating the soup
gave Tim a good sweat.

He was happy, just as I was when my mom cooked the same
soup for me when I was under the weather. I relished the meal
which made the cold much more bearable and felt secure in
the thought that I would be taken care of the same way all
my life. 

Looking back, I could see that it was too much to ask. The
happiness and contentment from my childhood comfort 
food didn't last and I was left in the wilderness most of 
my early adult life. These days, it dawned on me that if I
still wanted and indeed wanted them to last, it's the best
to take care of someone else and make him feel the kind
of care and security. He might hand it down some day, just 
like passing the baton in a relay.

* We very rarely eat things made out of white wheat flour
  these days.