I’m not a huge fan of cooking from scratch. Now, I don’t mind making a grilled cheese or creating a big-old salad every now and then, but to take time to prep and cook daily for only one person (me) just doesn’t make much sense. I mean, it would take me an hour to fix something and probably less than ten minutes to watch it disappear completely. And then there’s also the cleanup.

That’s a big “Nope” for me.

But sometimes, I hear this little voice whisper, “It’s time to make the soup.”

Potato and onion soup, to be specific. And so, I get out a sheet of paper to make the grocery list. Potatoes, sweet onion, butter, salt/pepper, and some half and half or a little milk. And if I’m feeling froggy, maybe even some bacon bits. It’s pretty simple. And I don’t measure anything… I just go by instinct.

It’s how my Dad taught me when I was in my early teens. When someone in our house was under the weather or just needed a little “picker-upper” during the cold weather days, he took over the kitchen and started making his “famous” potato and onion soup. He wasn’t much on doing the “household” things… my poor stepmom bore the brunt of that. (And I thank God for her every day because of it.) But there was something about the making of the soup that got him away from the television and up off the couch like it was his calling… his duty.

At first, watching him chop up the potatoes and onions seemed like a lot of work for just a few bowls of that stuff. But when he tossed it all in the water, and it started to simmer, something magical happened.

That soup became a healer – of bad colds and sore throats, difficult days, and of whatever disagreements might be lingering between a father and his young, fiercely independent teenage daughter. I’d find myself standing next to him at the stovetop, peeking over the huge pot, listening to his instructions that you “have to wait ‘til it stops bubbling to add just enough milk to give it a little thickness.” Then he’d carefully pour in the milk and stir to make the broth turn from a clear to a cloudy consistency.

The day he let me add the milk to the soup, I felt as if I’d reached another milestone in my young life – not only was I taking part in the making of the soup, it was one of the first moments after Mom had died that the two of us actually did something together.

You see, Dad had changed since her passing in 1978 – I wasn’t quite sure how or when it happened, but I felt like he had become more serious and focused on trying to adjust to life with the new family he and my stepmom had created. And, four years later, at age 40, having brought another daughter into the world almost sixteen years after the one who was standing beside him in the kitchen. He had sold the frame shop that he and mom had opened in late 1976 and was off on another career path – what it was at that time, I can’t recall. But it always seemed like he was chasing some “next great thing” that was just out of his reach. And it felt like the Dad I knew was just out of my reach as well.

I’m not putting all the blame on him – I also had my moments of being distant. There comes a point where, although teenage daughters act as if they don’t want to be anywhere close to them, deep down inside, they secretly long for a dad-sized bear hug and reassurance that they’re still the best daughter ever.

So, as I stand here in the present day, alone at my kitchen counter, chopping up the potatoes and onions, I’m reminded of the moment when a father handed the reins to his daughter and left her in charge of making the first batch of “the soup” from scratch. He had been under the weather and didn’t feel like cooking, so she took a huge container of it by the house and held her breath, watching him intently and bit anxiously as he took the first sip.

“You done good,” he grumbled as he slurped. Relaxing back in the kitchen chair, I let out a huge, audible sigh and smiled with pride. At that moment, the healing ritual had been handed down to another generation.

Filling up the pot with all the ingredients, I realize I’ve made way more than I can possibly eat in the next day or so.

But’s my second Christmas without having Dad around, and maybe taking a bit longer to cut up a few more vegetables was my way of being able to spend a little more time with him.