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The house smelled of roasting bones. They were boiled clean and spread out on a pan with healthy chunks of garlic and big white onion spears. The oven was on high heat, so high my cheeks flushed red hot when I opened the door. In thirty minutes the bones were crispy brown and brittle, sizzling in the pan. I buried it all, bits included, in a pot of cold water then waited patiently for it to boil. For three more hours, the bones shriveled under the bubbling water. Chili flakes and salt and pepper rounded out the flavor profile in my turkey carcass pot. It was a slightly grotesque mixture but it smelled delicious. The collagen swimming around in the oily brew was going to keep me young forever. I snuggled in on the couch to watch a movie with my youngest, at his request, which was mind blowing from my 13 yr old, while the bones danced and spit on the stove for the rest of the afternoon. There was salt and meat in the air, candles on the mantle, and feet tangled beneath a blanket. The dog snored between us. It was December 31st 2020. The eve before, God help us, a new year.

“Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse” was Isaac’s choice of movie for our mother-son afternoon. A new young lad, Miles Morales, is bitten by a pesky radioactive spider and mayhem ensues as he becomes another Spider Man. Miles’ short term pain from the spider bite is replaced by paralyzing confusion and an overwhelming sense of legacy and responsibility: embrace his new spidey powers and save the world from the hideous villain attempting to rip the fabric of time in order to bring back the dead - his dearly departed family lost in another dimension, or shrivel up in disbelief and sit idle in fear. Each moment of this epic adventure was brought to life by its Oscar-winning animation and art direction. The smile on my son’s face and the stillness in his gaze as he watched a young man succeed against all odds distracted me occasionally as I felt the romance of a hero story through his eyes. Isaac spread out further on the couch, pushing me to one side, making room for the inspiration that oozed from the hero’s journey to make peace with the messiness of life.  

Soon the rest of my family trickled in from their solitary activities and joined us by the fire. Steve from his reading (aka nap), Dexter from skating, and Kirby from, hmmmm, I have no idea where he was.  A greyish pink glow spilled in from the windows while the gang took their seats - primary colours from the Marvel Universe exploding in reflection across their faces. The bones sporadically tickled the side of the pot, reminding me something was still transforming in the kitchen, like Frankenstein on the table. The moment was perfect; family, story, food, and warmth.

Before long the sun set and my gang of merry men began to get hungry. Steve elbowed me away from my pot in order to whip up platters of wings and other New Year’s Eve snacks.  My bones quieted down and boiled gently like the obedient little creature they may or may not have once been. As we noshed on our spicy chicken, we began to discuss what our next movie for the night might be. Since we were all still trapped together in lockdown, there would be no socializing with other, more interesting people, just us, and whatever was left for us to watch on Netflix - which isn’t much. It’s been a long pandemic, making this a familiar ritual. Family time is almost a dirty phrase these days, like rash or dentist appointment. Another dry itchy patch?  Didn’t I just get a cleaning? And seriously, more family time? We’ve had more than our share of tobogganing, sing-alongs, board games, hikes, skating, laughing, dressing up for no reason, overeating, fighting over someone’s ‘attitude’, storming out of the room because ‘no one ever listens to me’, or slamming a door because ‘everyone always laughs at me’ or seething with anger because somebody did it; it can’t always be the dog. Never did we ever imagine this much togetherness when we first had kids. They sure grow up fast is a cliche I’m not sure I buy into anymore, now that I’ve had the chance to watch their cellular growth every second of every day. It’s pretty glacial. 

I tasted the broth in between plates of wings. Rich and oily. On its way to perfection.

After cleanup, we settled on the latest Liam Neeson movie. He must have done this one in his sleep. I thought to myself it might be nice if someone flipped the script and he was taken. Sometimes I need a little Qui Gon ‘Gin’ to get through some of his catalogue (not all, just some). As expected, Liam whispered threats into the phone while his adversaries scrambled to see him coming - again. I found the movie hard to watch - at first because it was predictable and then because my eyes were swelling shut. My sinuses were almost completely plugged by the third act and my chest was wheezing and heavy as if quick-hardening concrete were being mixed in my lungs. Instant Corona virus flare up?  An actual allergic reaction to a B-list Liam Neeson movie? 

I blew my nose a hundred times, each time my upper lip becoming more and more raw. I had excruciating road burn on my face from rapid and aggressive honking. Puffiness grew high on my cheeks and a fiery film covered my eyes. I could barely smell my broth anymore let alone take in the necessary oxygen needed to remain conscious. Somewhere in the distance I could hear Liam intimidating bad guys on his fourth burner phone. I bolted upright and started to pump my body full of a variety of allergy pills, sprays and topicals. While I waited for my pharmaceutical knight to save me, I shut the stove off and strained my broth, carefully focusing my blurred and weepy vision on the jars in front of me, expecting the pills to kick in any minute.

Nothing. 

I tried to stop myself from scratching out my burning eyeballs by sitting on my hands. They kept swelling, like sponges in boiling water. Breathing started to tire me out. My liver was going to have to deal with the allergy pill overdose while I hunted down the reason for this reaction. What would Liam Neeson do? How would Spider Man survive? Think Carol, think.  I watched the delicious turkey broth settle and cool in the jars, the smell escaping me. All the care I had put into this broth, without its fragrance, looked back at me like toilet water samples from an abandoned trailer park. No sense of smell, trouble breathing, blurred vision, global pandemic from a respiratory virus, yet somehow I was still optimistic about my condition. The evening was quickly becoming more interesting than anticipated. All day I had relaxed under a savoury cloud, unthreatened, exaggeratedly dissatisfied with the evening's movie choice as though that were an actual issue. What I wouldn’t give to watch “Men In Black: International” right now.

The dog kept snoring and my oldest son had this wisdom to impart before what seemed like my last breath, “You shouldn’t have had ice cream. Dairy.”

Think Carol. If Liam can figure out at the last second which safe house the bad guys are hiding in and Spider Man, basically a child, can suddenly learn to control his webs right before tumbling 100 floors to his death, then surely I can save myself from passing out in my own soup from a momentary invisible attack. I flashed back to several years ago when the news reported on Christmas Tree sickness - tiny mould spores that grow on live trees, infecting the air, causing mild to severe reactions.

“It’s the tree.” I wheezed, blinking through my cloudy vision. Ironically, or not, it felt like my eyes were bathing in murky soup. 

Thankfully my family could tear themselves away from the riveting movie to help me strip all the ornaments off the tree. Kirby pulled the lights down, we unscrewed the trunk from the base and Steve dragged the holiday carcass outside, tossing the much loved Christmas tree to the curb like a hot potato. No one loves Christmas more than I do. I barely had a chance to say good-bye. The ornaments were left splayed out on the couch like toys pulled from a house fire at a crime scene. I vacuumed and swept every last needle from the house and opened the windows to refresh the air, all the while panting like a 20 year old dog. Slowly, I came back. My eyes cooled, my wheeze loosened and my nose gradually opened for business. I should have expected nothing less from the end of 2020. “Don’t get comfortable” its legacy.

In recovery, I placed the lids on the jars of broth and put them all in the fridge, happy again to think of the nourishment I would enjoy tomorrow. Before closing the fridge, the smell gently kissed my nostrils and awakened my senses. By 11:55 pm we headed down to the lake to watch the light show from the CN Tower and catch some unofficial fireworks, everyone secretly excited to see the end of such an onerous year in history. I fumbled to sync my Bluetooth speaker to the channel hosting the light show as I stood in the dark with my gang. The lake shore was already erupting in a display of large and small fireworks as neighbours huddled around the waters black edge.

“Is it midnight yet?” asked Steve.

I looked down at my phone.

“Oh. It’s 12:01.”

It happened without us noticing. Y2K all over again. We kissed and hugged three minutes late then walked back to the house, past the deserted Christmas tree, puddles of green needles marking the path to the porch. I blew out the candles on the mantle and shut off the lights but not before bagging up the used bones and taking them back out to the green bin. I paused on the front lawn beneath the moonlight next to the deserted tree, now bare and sleeping on its side, or back? The vignette reminding me that it was a tree; underneath all the glamour, it was a tree, already perfect. It will go back to the ground it came from now, safe from twinkle lights and tinsel; a dog that never really needed a sweater to be cute.

This day swung from beautiful to fragile to disappointing to over. My favourite time of year was ripped out and ended in under ten minutes. Pills and fresh air rescued me from the edge of disaster and the new year failed to make a fuss just to prevent me from placing any expectations on it that I shouldn’t be placing on myself first. Like everything in life there is good and bad - no different than Liam Neeson movies. And it shouldn’t take a spider bite to get me to accept the messiness of it or my role in its success or failure. Bones can be a reminder of what died, or the base for a whole new recipe or chapter in life. My Christmas tree tried to finish what 2020 started but in the end, just like Spider Man and Liam Neeson, I won. To all the evil and obstacles waiting to pounce in 2021 I say, “No soup for you.”

By Carol Sloan

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