“i’ll be right there.  it’s the third time she’s sick this month, are you sure everything is being sanitized correctly?”

“mrs. prucha, your daughter has no concept of personal space, and will not leave anyone alone or untouched.  if any child is ever sick, she’s going to catch it.”

my mother rages home down merrick road, dodging dollar vans, distraught with the notion that she has to miss yet another day of work.  she turns into the Tutor Time parking lot, tuggles with the door, and stares unsurprisingly at the disheveled creature that stands before her.

“what now, typhoid mary?”

“my tummy hurts.”

we make our way home, and i am propped vertically on the couch, surrounded by a fortress of scratchy, decorative pillows.  i switch on my cultured entertainment for the evening- the wiggles- and i gradually become intoxicated by the chicken broth aroma.

in the kitchen, my mother is boiling pastina in chicken broth- an italian’s penicillin.

she swirls in the egg in the same fashion in which her aunt theresa did for her, and certainly does not skimp on cheese.  she finishes it with a drizzle of olive oil and a crack of black pepper, and delivers it fondly to my waiting lap.  i don’t need to have an appetite, i am sure to scarf this down. one bite, and i’m convinced i’m cured.