Chicken Soup For My Soul

My kinesiologist’s hands smell like Continental Chicken Soup.

Not the cuppa soup variety, the packet that my mum used to make me when I had a sore throat as a kid (probably because it’s teeming with salt) with the little cut up noodles in it.  Mum would float crackers in it (also covered in salt) and I’d wait for them to soak up all the chickeny goodness and expand to twice their size before tucking in.  Serious artery-hardening material.

It’s amazing, the power of sensory memory.  As my kinesiologist’s fingers tapped lightly on my upper lip last night, that delightful chicken soupy scent brought back so many memories of nurturing and feeding the soul.  Appropriate, given that’s precisely the reason I visit her.


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