Chicken and Dumplings by Kyle Knight
“Very good, dear” he says, raising another spoonful of chicken broth to his lips. They part ways and allow a thick stream of savory soup to slide in, and open even wider to allow a piece of breading to make its way through to the eagerly awaiting tongue inside. They close rapidly to keep the food concealed like a deep, dark secret. The process is repeated until the porcelain bowl is empty.
“It was easy” she says, raising a glass of cold milk to celebrate the occasion. It’s all part of the joke. The chef is supposed to thank the crowd for cooking a wonderful the meal, and the dinner guests are supposed to humbly accept the compliment.
It isn’t snowing here. It isn’t even cold. If anything, winter feels like the summer in Texas. The freezing New Jersey Decembers are a thing of the past, but the warmth of dinner still makes her feel like a Yankee. Grandpa cleans the dishes and the kitchen as usual, while the aroma of the meal still ventures throughout the house like a lost soul, looking for a vacancy sign on any nostrils to call home. It’s a lingering scent, even after dinner. It’s a reminder that she’s home, enjoying an evening with the ones she loves. His whistling fills her ears, making its way from the kitchen into the living room like a feather floating through the wind.
...
“Very good, dear” my older sister says. She’s a 7-year-old with a lot of attitude, but has a braver tongue and palate than my own. I glance at my brother’s chocolate milk in disgust, and move my eyes toward the bowl of soup and dumplings in the bright blue bowl at my left.
“It was easy” I say, but the irony is my plate of chicken nuggets and ketchup. Mom asks me to take a spoonful of her chicken, just to try it. I defy her as usual, making it known that I’m perfectly content with my crispy tenders and strawberry beverage. She’s always trying to make me taste something, and this dish is a specialty; I recognize it as something she only makes a few times out of the year. Yet, I rebel and refuse. My sister finishes her meal, and I sit at the table blowing bubbles through my straw until I’m bored and full of microwaveable meat.
...
It’s a cold evening here in Manvel, which is unusual in October. The heater is broken again, so I surround myself with a fortress of blankets as I camp out in the living room. I’ve conquered the living room television, playing Xbox until the call of dinner takes me away from the remote. I sit at the table, moving over a pile of papers and unsorted receipts to make way for my meal. Mom hands me a bowl, and asks me to try it. I consider the request, and decide to dive in with my spoon. I’m immediately rewarded for my bravery. The combination of warmth, cooked chicken and fluffy bread makes me feel as if I’m chewing on a pillow. I swallow, and soon discover that I’m going back for seconds.
“Very good dear” she says, taking a seat on the living room couch. There’s not enough room at the table for all of us, but she ensures her children get food and seats first.
“It was easy” I say, but I’m a little too focused on my bowl to notice my dad entering through the backdoor. He’s upset again, and he places his guitar set down on the kitchen floor with a loud sigh. Without saying hello, he grabs a bowl and scoops in some broth. He goes back for three dumplings, placing them like floating buoys on top of an ocean of soup and chicken. Like a phantom, he seems to float away; as quickly as he’s entered, he leaves the scene to take refuge in his room. My mom gets up to clean as my siblings chew on in an awkward silence. The lingering smell of dinner distracts me from the tension, up until my dad comes out of his room to place his bowl in the sink. He starts to raise his voice at my mom for no reason in particular, and picks up his musical devices like a suitcase and coat. He leaves through the backdoor, slamming it shut as we all look on in an anxious flurry of emotions. My mom just shakes her head, grabs another bowl of dumplings, and begins to package up the leftovers.
...
It’s been 8 years since grandpa passed, but visiting the cemetery reminds me of the sight of the military woman wearing an indigo suit. A 21-gun salute by several soldiers brings back a memory of a man I barely knew, but one that my mom learned her culinary skills from. I still hear him whistling in the kitchen, and I see his face behind a pair of rectangular glasses.
As I look down at the grave site, and my grandma places the flowers down, I’m reminded of how quickly things went wrong. Leg pain, followed by cancer, took away the family’s chef. I’m filled with anger at my father for not attending the funeral; he’s since left my life to pursue a career of music and “worship,” and I only see him on holidays. But his absence is not the one haunting me in this moment.
I ask myself why good men like my grandfather die from cancer, while bullies like my father get to live. We head back to the car and return home, and my mom says she’ll prepare the special meal that brings us all a sense of peace.
“Very good dear” my mom says, passing us each a bowl of dumplings and broth. I’m barely paying attention and almost spill my drink as my textbook bumps into a cup of sweet tea. I escape my thoughts for a while and allow the taste of chicken to ward off my worries of school and fading memories. My lips part ways, creating a tunnel for the soup and bread to enter. They close again, and I swallow the broth.
“It was easy” I say. The thunder outside is loud enough to shake the windows, and the vibrations cause our cats to jump away from the table in terror.
“Grandpa must be bowling again,” my older sister says. We laugh, and all agree. He’s probably getting strikes and spares with Jesus up there, having the time of his life as the scent of the dumplings rise up towards his place in the heavens.
...
I park my car, and turn off the lights. I’ve had two exams this week and there’s a school event that I’m hosting on Friday that I haven’t even prepared for. I have three meetings to worry about on Monday, but none of that matters right now. It’s a Saturday night, and my sister is back from Austin with her boyfriend. My brother has already pulled in from his late shift at Home Depot. I’m the last one to arrive, but that same powerful aroma hits me as I open the backdoor to the house and make my way past our swarm of pets.
“Very good dear” my mom says, placing a bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of my brother.
“It was easy” he replies. I lock the door and take my seat at the kitchen table, and the whistling of my sister’s significant other from the living room fills my ears. Grandpa will never be gone. Like the scent of the dumplings, he lingers here, giving us warmth and comfort when we need it most.
“It was easy” she says, raising a glass of cold milk to celebrate the occasion. It’s all part of the joke. The chef is supposed to thank the crowd for cooking a wonderful the meal, and the dinner guests are supposed to humbly accept the compliment.
It isn’t snowing here. It isn’t even cold. If anything, winter feels like the summer in Texas. The freezing New Jersey Decembers are a thing of the past, but the warmth of dinner still makes her feel like a Yankee. Grandpa cleans the dishes and the kitchen as usual, while the aroma of the meal still ventures throughout the house like a lost soul, looking for a vacancy sign on any nostrils to call home. It’s a lingering scent, even after dinner. It’s a reminder that she’s home, enjoying an evening with the ones she loves. His whistling fills her ears, making its way from the kitchen into the living room like a feather floating through the wind.
...
“Very good, dear” my older sister says. She’s a 7-year-old with a lot of attitude, but has a braver tongue and palate than my own. I glance at my brother’s chocolate milk in disgust, and move my eyes toward the bowl of soup and dumplings in the bright blue bowl at my left.
“It was easy” I say, but the irony is my plate of chicken nuggets and ketchup. Mom asks me to take a spoonful of her chicken, just to try it. I defy her as usual, making it known that I’m perfectly content with my crispy tenders and strawberry beverage. She’s always trying to make me taste something, and this dish is a specialty; I recognize it as something she only makes a few times out of the year. Yet, I rebel and refuse. My sister finishes her meal, and I sit at the table blowing bubbles through my straw until I’m bored and full of microwaveable meat.
...
It’s a cold evening here in Manvel, which is unusual in October. The heater is broken again, so I surround myself with a fortress of blankets as I camp out in the living room. I’ve conquered the living room television, playing Xbox until the call of dinner takes me away from the remote. I sit at the table, moving over a pile of papers and unsorted receipts to make way for my meal. Mom hands me a bowl, and asks me to try it. I consider the request, and decide to dive in with my spoon. I’m immediately rewarded for my bravery. The combination of warmth, cooked chicken and fluffy bread makes me feel as if I’m chewing on a pillow. I swallow, and soon discover that I’m going back for seconds.
“Very good dear” she says, taking a seat on the living room couch. There’s not enough room at the table for all of us, but she ensures her children get food and seats first.
“It was easy” I say, but I’m a little too focused on my bowl to notice my dad entering through the backdoor. He’s upset again, and he places his guitar set down on the kitchen floor with a loud sigh. Without saying hello, he grabs a bowl and scoops in some broth. He goes back for three dumplings, placing them like floating buoys on top of an ocean of soup and chicken. Like a phantom, he seems to float away; as quickly as he’s entered, he leaves the scene to take refuge in his room. My mom gets up to clean as my siblings chew on in an awkward silence. The lingering smell of dinner distracts me from the tension, up until my dad comes out of his room to place his bowl in the sink. He starts to raise his voice at my mom for no reason in particular, and picks up his musical devices like a suitcase and coat. He leaves through the backdoor, slamming it shut as we all look on in an anxious flurry of emotions. My mom just shakes her head, grabs another bowl of dumplings, and begins to package up the leftovers.
...
It’s been 8 years since grandpa passed, but visiting the cemetery reminds me of the sight of the military woman wearing an indigo suit. A 21-gun salute by several soldiers brings back a memory of a man I barely knew, but one that my mom learned her culinary skills from. I still hear him whistling in the kitchen, and I see his face behind a pair of rectangular glasses.
As I look down at the grave site, and my grandma places the flowers down, I’m reminded of how quickly things went wrong. Leg pain, followed by cancer, took away the family’s chef. I’m filled with anger at my father for not attending the funeral; he’s since left my life to pursue a career of music and “worship,” and I only see him on holidays. But his absence is not the one haunting me in this moment.
I ask myself why good men like my grandfather die from cancer, while bullies like my father get to live. We head back to the car and return home, and my mom says she’ll prepare the special meal that brings us all a sense of peace.
“Very good dear” my mom says, passing us each a bowl of dumplings and broth. I’m barely paying attention and almost spill my drink as my textbook bumps into a cup of sweet tea. I escape my thoughts for a while and allow the taste of chicken to ward off my worries of school and fading memories. My lips part ways, creating a tunnel for the soup and bread to enter. They close again, and I swallow the broth.
“It was easy” I say. The thunder outside is loud enough to shake the windows, and the vibrations cause our cats to jump away from the table in terror.
“Grandpa must be bowling again,” my older sister says. We laugh, and all agree. He’s probably getting strikes and spares with Jesus up there, having the time of his life as the scent of the dumplings rise up towards his place in the heavens.
...
I park my car, and turn off the lights. I’ve had two exams this week and there’s a school event that I’m hosting on Friday that I haven’t even prepared for. I have three meetings to worry about on Monday, but none of that matters right now. It’s a Saturday night, and my sister is back from Austin with her boyfriend. My brother has already pulled in from his late shift at Home Depot. I’m the last one to arrive, but that same powerful aroma hits me as I open the backdoor to the house and make my way past our swarm of pets.
“Very good dear” my mom says, placing a bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of my brother.
“It was easy” he replies. I lock the door and take my seat at the kitchen table, and the whistling of my sister’s significant other from the living room fills my ears. Grandpa will never be gone. Like the scent of the dumplings, he lingers here, giving us warmth and comfort when we need it most.
This recipe was originally cooked by my grandpa and grandma. My mother has made her own modifications to the recipe. It continues to be a meal that she makes on special occasions, typically when we are not feeling well or when it is cold outside.
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