By The week after Hanukkah is always a strange pocket of time — the candles are out, school lurches toward the winter break, and the house smells of spent wax and residual frying oil and the particular quiet that follows celebration. This year that quiet has an extra layer. We have told the children. We have told David's children, in age-appropriate ways that Jennifer managed better than I could have. Ethan, four, understood that Grandpa's brain was having some trouble. Sophie, two, understood nothing except that the latkes were gone.
I am researching. I have borrowed seven books from the library about Alzheimer's disease and I have read three of them and put the other four face-down on the nightstand because I needed to stop reading about the progression. The progression is a word that is doing a lot of heavy lifting in my life right now. It means: it will get worse. The rate is uncertain. The stages are named. I do not want to name the stages. I know the stages. I am not ready to attach stages to Marvin.
I made chicken soup this week — the Jewish penicillin, the soup my mother made for every illness of body or spirit, the soup that I have made in this kitchen every winter since 1982. The recipe is the recipe: chicken (bone-in, skin-on — you cannot make this soup with boneless skinless chicken, you simply cannot, it is a different substance entirely), carrots, celery, parsnip, onion, dill. Four hours on the stove, minimum. I filled the house with the smell of it and Marvin came into the kitchen and said, "That smells like your mother," which was the best thing he has said in weeks. It also broke my heart, because it was true, and because Sylvia is not here, and because I am making her soup to stay afloat the way she did, which means she would understand exactly why I am making it, and I cannot tell her so.
Rebecca called from Manhattan to check in. We talked for an hour. She has been reading the Alzheimer's literature too — of course she has, she is a literature professor, she reads everything. She said, "The research on maintaining cognitive function through engagement is actually quite promising." I said, "I'm keeping him engaged." She said, "I know, Mama." We both knew that engagement and a good attitude will not stop the progression, but we didn't say that either, because sometimes the conversation you don't have is the kindest one.
The soup was already made — four hours on the stove, the way my mother made it, the way it had to be made — but I wanted something to put in it that I had shaped with my own hands, something that took time and attention and kept me from reading chapter eight of the progression book. My mother used to make her own egg noodles, rolling the dough out on the kitchen table while she talked, and I had not done that in years, and this felt like exactly the week to do it again. These are the noodles that go in the bowl. They are not complicated. That is the point.
Grandma’s Egg Noodles
Prep Time: 30 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 40 min (plus 30 min resting) | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 large eggs
- 1/4 cup whole milk or water
- 1 teaspoon unsalted butter, softened (optional)
Instructions
- Make the dough. In a large bowl, whisk together flour and salt. Make a well in the center and crack in the eggs. Add milk or water and butter if using. Mix with a fork until a shaggy dough forms, then turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 6–8 minutes until smooth and elastic.
- Rest the dough. Wrap the dough tightly in plastic wrap or cover with an inverted bowl. Let it rest at room temperature for at least 30 minutes. This relaxes the gluten and makes rolling much easier.
- Roll thin. Divide the dough in half. On a well-floured surface, roll each piece as thin as you can manage — about 1/8 inch or less. The thinner, the silkier the final noodle.
- Cut the noodles. Dust the rolled dough generously with flour, then roll it loosely into a cylinder. Slice crosswise into strips 1/4 to 1/2 inch wide. Shake the cut noodles loose and spread them on a floured towel to dry for 10–15 minutes.
- Cook. Bring a large pot of salted water (or, better, your chicken broth) to a rolling boil. Drop in the noodles and cook for 6–10 minutes, tasting as you go, until tender but not mushy. Fresh noodles cook faster than dried.
- Serve. Ladle directly into bowls of hot chicken soup. The noodles will continue to absorb broth as they sit, so serve promptly.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 175 | Protein: 6g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 30g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 115mg