“Mattie! Soup!”

I could hear my mother yelling from the kitchen. I slowly finished typing the last sentence of a paper and rushed down the stairs. My mother stood next to the stove dipping a ladle into a giant pot on a burner. She carefully poured two and a half ladles worth of soup into a bowl and handed it to me.

I carefully walked to the kitchen table, mouth salivating from the delicious scent of chicken soup invading my nostrils. My mother poured herself a bowl and sat down next to me at the table.

I grabbed a small saucer of freshly cut dill from the center of the table and sprinkled some onto my soup. After handing the saucer over to my mother, I looked carefully at my bowl.

There I saw one of the most subtle displays of affection. My mother was careful to ladle out more broth than vegetables and meat. She made sure there was no chicken bone in my bowl. My mother knew how I liked to eat my soup.

I stirred the dill into my soup with my spoon and then I took a big slurp of it.

“Great soup, Mum,” I said emphatically, “Just the way I like it.”