The C Word
Seven years ago, my Mother was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Two weeks prior, my Father’s Mother died of the same disease.
I didn’t comprehend the long term effects it would have on my family, my mental state, and the permanent stench that lingers from my family microwave. I have been tormented by the C word for some time now, forever tainted by what I can only deem as the chum bucket curse.
Chris O’Brien and his lifehouse treated my Mother and family extraordinarily well. I am forever indebted to the nurses, doctors, and the leftovers of my Mother’s chemotherapy induced medical marjiuana prescription. After a year long treatment and a tearful farewell to free cups of tea, she volunteered to a three year clinical research trial —CHALLENGE: Diet and Exercise Trial for Prevention of Bowel Cancer Recurrence, An Exercise Study for People who Completed Chemotherapy for Stage II or Stage III Colon Cancer.
Her solution? Soup.
So, something greige was born. In what resembles an entity entirely inedible and only explainable as something of a chum – a monster was blended, outliving both her trial and taste buds. It fed questionable trial results for hopeful bowel cancer patients and fearful honours students to grovel at. It also fed the family. Soup is too generous a word to explicate the amalgamation that is my Mother’s trademark chum. Not a grain of salt or a splash of stock dare taint the chum and bring the ever fearful idea of flavour. Concrete in its presence and malodorous in its scent. Vegetables, water, and whimsy were tastelessly ingested every night for the promise of clear bowels and yet, the guarantee of a bowl licked clean. If cancer is genetic, I wondered if my culinary skills were terminal too.
Raised in Campbelltown with powdered milk, devon sandwiches and four hungry siblings, my Mother knew cooking only as an inconvenience. When not studying at clown school (yes, clown school) or sneaking into the city, Mary, Ruth, Beth, Paul and herself shared grace before sharing frozen stew.
Raised in Malta by his widowed Mother, my Father and his five brothers lived off Ħobż biż-Żejt, tinned tuna, and a shared understanding that food was fuel. His parents owned a café in the sandstone streets of Sliema, and my Father would end up attending culinary school himself.
Raised in Balmain with my brother, pesto pasta and Paddle Pop desserts. I was raised to indulge in food, but succumbed to the trends of adolescence and grew to avoid it entirely. Our family thrived on leftovers and takeout. Every evening after school, we would reheat our respective bowls and retreat to our rooms and eat alone. I liked it this way. I had never known otherwise.
I am the product of this unusual pairing. An ingredient in the family recipe of everyone that came before me. I express grace for it all, whether it be a labour of love, or a mere microwave meal. Though, I remain astonished as to how we landed with a monotonous future of chum. Equally, I remain astonished by how my parents allow themselves this flavourless future.
I realised I had never asked my parents their perceptions of the purée, so I did.
“It reminded me of surviving, but it really is just soup.”
“It’s good for you, but I would make it with more herbs and spices, but Mum wouldn’t like that, and that’s fair, she’s the one making it.”
But do you enjoy it?
“It reminds me of home.”
I have spent the last seven years detesting this soup. Mocking its colour, texture, and relentlessly teasing my poor parents for their acceptance of an abyss of flavour. I have always refused to indulge. The disgust I have is not in the greige complexion of the bowl in front of me, but rather the rancid reminder I am refusing my own fate.
In truth, I just can’t digest the reminder of what was. It’s simply too hard to swallow. Cancer is a part of my paternal history, and forecasted for my future. It takes strength to be reminded of that every day, even if it’s just soup. In fact, I am greige myself. Chunky, at times tasteless, and a mere melting pot of things I love and hate. I am the product of the unusual Campbelltown clown and Maltese Mafia pairing; I see their past in everything I indulge in.
Maureen’s Vegetable Soup Recipe
Enjoy your nutritious soup and a life limited to slightly less colonoscopies!
Ingredients:
1 head of cauliflower, pre-chopped
1 small pumpkin, pre-peeled and pre-chopped
1 head of broccoli, pre-chopped
Water
Method:
1. Remove the cauliflower, pumpkin, and broccoli from their packaging and rinse them under a tap.
2. Place the chopped vegetables in a large pot, fully submerging them in water, until the water line is just above the vegetables.
3. Heat the pot over medium-high heat until the water comes to a boil.Once boiling, reduce the heat to a simmer. Let the vegetables simmer until they are soft and fork-tender, which should take about 15-20 minutes.
4. Use a hand blender to purée the vegetables until questionably smooth.
5. (Don’t) Season to Taste —Do not add salt, pepper, or other seasonings to taste.
6. Pour the puree into one large plastic container and store in the fridge for the week ahead. Serve as is, lukewarm from the microwave.