As a child, I had a love-hate relationship with my mom’s soups.
The timing of her homemade soup was always perfect. Though she did tell me to put on more layers instead of raising the thermostat (what do I put over a sweatshirt mom?), at least she filled my wintry, cold core with warmth. My childish objection, however, was the ramifications of using a home-cooked chicken- the occasional bone or bit of fat or tendon, which prevented me from slurping recklessly to the bottom of the bowl.
Then I grew up. I roasted many a chicken and saw how much remained to be used, so finally I did what mom did. I boiled that leftover chicken with plenty of vegetables, added too little salt and mixed in plenty of [brown rice] noodles. As I ate spoonful after spoonful, the warmth of nostalgia superseded all my childhood complaints. Now it’s just a love relationship.
Much like my mom’s main kitchen repertoire, this soup is recipe-less. Just wing it!