My mind is still soap from my throat being sawdust (oh, the joys of illin’). The curative powers of chicken soup should never be underestimated, especially when there are Jews about. I had some this afternoon, and now I’m wanting a nap.
Last night, as my fingers froze one by one, plinking from my icy hands to shatter in the gutters (I dislike wearing gloves, and a few nights each year I really regret not having them handy), I hustled down Montague Street to Andy’s Chinese in Brooklyn Heights.
It’s wonderful what a good bowl of hot and sour soup will do for the throat and the soul. It may not replace chicken soup any time soon, but it does the job.
Andy’s is closer to the subway than to the house, and on the swarm home the streets were stone empty, but for the splinters of abandoned fingers here and there. The wind howled a bit less than on the City side. It was good to burrow down inside and make more Yogi tea.