Today, the hospital told Dad he could now have a liquid diet after having consumed nothing for three days. Then came the extra sentence. "You can call a relative if you'd like, and perhaps, they could make you a thin broth soup."
I was the relative. Even though I was pouring the beautiful but very tedious Meant to Bee soap, the request made me Mrs Happy Go Lucky. Why? Because in the midst of the week's turmoil, a movie fantasy reel began to unfurl in my head.
I cut the carrots and chop the onions. I core my sweet red bell peppers. Scoop up and toss in a melange of dry herbs---but mostly rosemary and marjoram. The kettle is bubbling with chicken broth. I toss in all the ingredients and then add my love, my well wishes, my strength. An hour later the soup's steam undulates to the ceiling. The taste is sweet but full of heat in that way that makes you crave more.
The night before the surgery, my father is served the soup. Oddly, it arrives with white linen napkins and a vintage silver spoon.
The next day in the operating room, the members of the surgical team are left aghast. As the incision is made, and the skin flaps opened, the colon is revealed as healthy, plump and pink. The urologist faints to a crumbled heap. The observing intern gasps.
Within days, the news leaks out. The soup was magic! Who made that soup? Where is the recipe?
Dad and I are pursued all over global countrysides by paparazzi and evil CIA villains. I get to ride a baby blue Vespa over waterfalls. I learn to swim well by sheer terror and default. And yet my hair looks fabulous!
That's it. That's my movie. Did I mention Sean Connery plays Dad? Halle Berry gets to play me. That's some dumb luck those two caught!