It Will Kill You or Make you Stronger

The ringing phone pierced the brittle darkness as they lay side by side. Mike reached over the chasm between them and picked up.
Estelle heard a demanding voice
“Yes” mumbled Mike “Yes, yes…I do realise that, Friday…this Friday…I understand”
He put down the receiver.
As seconds yawned into minutes Estelle turned to her husband
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as it can get. If I can’t seal the deal on Friday then that’s it Estelle, we’re sunk.”

Estelle Franklin believed in her husband. He might have got them into this mess but he was an accomplished chancer and she remained confident that he would get them out. However Estelle was no shrinking violet, and maybe after all their years together she could draw on her reserves and show Mike that she too had valuable skills.

As she lay there the anxiety spread across Estelle’s back and her forehead settled into deep furrows above her red-rimmed eyes. It was critical that Friday was a success. If there was no reconciliation then the future would be bleak for all of them. The house would definitely have to go along with the lifestyle. Despite her reassurances she knew Mike was dwelling on whether his misjudgement would shatter the foundations of their long marriage.

“It’ll kill you or make you stronger” had always been Grandma’s teasing riposte to any crisis, large or small. Her family was made of strong stuff and the cure for all ills - medical, emotional or practical was well known to them. Granted, none of them had been married to Mike but they would get through this in the way they always did, Estelle would blindside them with some culinary magic and Grandma’s chicken soup was just that.

Inspired by memories of her grandmother the next day she went to work. “Dig deep Estelle” she told herself. She moved through her kitchen gathering the ingredients from her arsenal. The ground was familiar here and whilst the stakes were too high to feel that she could settle into her comfort zone, the tension started to ease.

She took the expectant chicken from the worktop (no good straight from the fridge, it needed to be at room temperature) and placed it into the large pot. She covered the flabby white flesh with water and brought it gently to the boil. First stage over she was in the groove, Estelle deftly peeled off the scum (without shuddering as she once did) and added carrot, turnip, celery, leek and parsley (the crisp vegetables all finely chopped) a good dose of salt and white pepper and she sighed. Her shoulders sank, beads of sweat mushroomed on her blushing face as the familiar smell wooed her. Game on. She had 3 hours at least for the alchemy to happen, adding only her love as the pot simmered. There were no precise timings the gift of generations guiding her to know when to turn off the heat. She was soothed by the fug of her kitchen and she rejoiced at her heritage.

This pause was part of the process. Normally Estelle poured herself a large glass of merlot, put on the radio and enjoyed a steamy moment before she continued with her other work. This, however, was not routine. She was cooking for their survival. She wavered between the kettle and the wine rack before reluctantly making a pot of tea tempered with a plate of Jaffa cakes.

The flirtation over, Estelle eventually took the soup from the stove whilst they both cooled-off. This could not be rushed, there was a rhythm to be obeyed, the same process followed for generations. It was late but before she went to bed she removed the chicken from the stock, strained the vegetables from the liquid and prepared to
place the fledgling soup in the fridge. Her heart raced into tomorrow as she checked she was alone. Estelle then pulled the final ingredient from the back of the cupboard and gently stirred it into the warm mix.

Estelle awoke early on Friday, she was calm and focused unlike her husband. As evening descended Mike dodged in and out of the kitchen bringing with him his black cloud of apprehension.

He had watched Estelle stroke the congealed fat from the surface of the soup that morning, as he had watched many times before. She now placed the pot on the hob, stirring the golden soup to perfection. The unexpected intimacy of the rising heat reminded them of what they were playing for. They looked at each other and smiled. Mike reached for Estelle, stroking her arm and caressing her fingers.
“Our future in your hands” Mike said “of course everything will be all right!”