When I’m sick, I like to curl up in bed in my PJ’s and be served comfort food made by OTHER people. One of those foods was chicken soup, particularly my Mom’s - a nurturing food of fragrant comfort and homey warmth. Now, I don’t know much about the actual physical benefits and/or curative myths of chicken soup, but I do know that I always feel the love of the person who took the time to make food for me. Love heals me.
I cannot remember a time when I was sick and wasn’t served chicken soup… until now. Since my diet turned less meat-centric around approx. this past May, I’ve abstained from eating slabs of beef, pork or chicken. It has been a struggle, but I’ve been very diligent in maintaining a healthier lifestyle, except for that one time this past summer when I sampled some BBQ pork ribs. Hey, it’s just really difficult to suppress years of being a carnivore. Most of my childhood memories of “good times” in the summer seem to include the park and barbeques. 
OK, truthfully, I did not stray from the path while I was sick. The Vegetarian Jedi spirit was strong even though the body was weak. I asked for veggie or seafood based foods… and man, I’m telling ya, it just wasn’t the same feeling. These lovely soups were fragrant, full-bodied, tasty soups but… not chicken soup penicillin.
The following poem that I found in an old cookbook, “The Whole World Loves Chicken Soup” (by Mimi Sheraton) says it better than I ever could:
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