Chicken soup—as we all know, is the remedy for all that ails. Colds, flu, it even helps with COVID-- and, it turns out chicken soup is also the cure for a seven-year old’s afflictions of the soul.
Chicken soup—or caldo—was a go-to supper at our house on cold winter nights. There at the stove was my Ama, who lovingly made our delicious caldo from chicken, potatoes and cabbage. She only made caldo in the winter and it was a savory, warming special treat. My older brothers and sister, who were in high school, sat beside me at the table. Ama brought fresh tortillas for us from the hot comal.
I was in the second grade, seven years old, and newly arrived at the age of reason, whatever that was supposed to mean. I knew it meant that I could start preparing for Holy Communion. I had started my 'doctrina,' afterschool at church. It was a big deal. Our teacher was Chanita, a skinny, stern old woman whose presence I clearly remember distinctly.
Usually at the table I was a chatterbox. (Who can imagine that?) But that night I remember I ate my caldo quietly. There was a reason I was quiet: I had a secret from Ama. I had had secrets from her before. I took an empanada from the batch she had for her merienda for her group of comadres. She found out. No bueno. Keeping a secret from her was risky business. They said the nuns at school had eyes on the back of their heads, but Ama had the nuns beat. She could practically read my mind. And this new secret of mine-- it was a whole other-level secret. Did Ama know what my secret was? She wasn't acting like it, but you never knew.
I DID know if Ama found out, I would be in the deepest of doo doo.
Ama was – how shall I put it—not one to suffer fools? That doesn't even come close. Here it is: Ama grew up on a rancho in Mexico helping to raise her eight younger brothers and sisters. Ama was puro rancho. And for those of you that don’t know what puro rancho might mean in this context, just think of the force of a flying house slipper, a chancla, hitting you like a rock on the back of your head. And, if you were unlucky that day, the follow-up-chaser of a heavy smack on the top of your skull from a hand accustomed to hard manual labor. Puro rancho meant ka-pow discipline. No 'let’s talk about it'—just puro rancho force-of-the-fist style justice.
I knew I would be in a world of hurt if Ama were to find out this secret. Just before supper I had been playing with the neighbor, a boy my same age. We set up my miniature farm set in my brother’s room. I thought Barbie dolls were boring. I loved my barnyard, even if it was miniature and mostly imaginary. After a few Indan raids, the neighbor boy and I moved onto a new game, playing doctor. In a few minutes, we discovered that was way more fun than farming.
I sat at the table, my bowl of caldo in front of me and struggled to keep my head from exploding. I couldn't stop thinking about those playing doctor feelings??!!! There a wild brushfire of feelings in my head --not to mention other body parts. They scared me, but they were amazing--What could I do to keep them going please? please??? Then—because I thought it might help put out the fire—and not because I was still hungry-- I did something that I’d never done before. I asked Ama for more caldo. I thought my feelings about playing doctor and keeping a secret might calm down if I had more soup. She refilled my bowl, and I took one spoonful after another. And that night I discovered food could comfort me and protect me from my scary feelings! More on that later.
My catechism classes for Holy Communion were ending and Chanita, our teacher began preparing us for our first confession with the tall bear of our parish priest, Father Postert. Here's how it went. Each of us would enter a small dark cubicle with only enough space to kneel on a hard, wooden board. We would recite a prayer we memorized of confession and tell the priest, who sat separated from us by a wall with a wooden window screen at our face level all our sins—the venial, those were little ones and the cardinal ones, the big ones.
Confession was a sacrament, just like Holy Communion. It was the last step in preparation for Holy Communion and though I dreaded it, I didn’t need to ask Chanita, our teacher if I could skip it. I knew you couldn’t. You had to do it if you wanted to go to Heaven. Chanita, who was older than the nuns, only wore black. She somehow had lost an arm and I tried hard to not stare at her. She stood straight as a broom stick, shook her singular fist and instructed us to think long and hard to prepare to confess our sins. Chanita made it clear. This was serious business. About the most serious business this seven year old had ever known.
I wondered what I would do about confession. A lot was riding on this. What was my plan? What was I going to do? Would I confess only my venial sins of stealing empanadas or cursing when I struggled with arithmetic, or would I tell Father Postert about my big cardinal sin of playing doctor with the neighbor boy?
It was like a scab on my knee, nagging me with every step. For the next several days, it was all I could think about –including through the nun’s lesson on multiplication and division-- because I had much bigger fish to fry than numbers: Should I tell Father Postert about playing doctor? I had reached the age of reason. Who would know besides me if I kept it to myself? I was choosing between spending eternity in Heaven or in the other place, H-E-Double L-.
I finally reasoned that I might as well go into the whole holy communion thing being truthful. Or else, why even go through with it?
I’d like to say that as a budding thinker and feminist-in-the-making that I decided that my playing doctor was no one’s business but mine and that of the neighbor boy.
The truth is, I saw the decision of whether to tell the priest about playing doctor as my sword drawing a line in the sand, like that modern day martyr at the Battle of the Alamo.
I wanted to be truthful to Father Postert, the parish priest who looked like a polar bear. He was almost as scary as Ama. I wanted to be truthful, not for his prayers for forgiveness, but for me, for the person drawing the line in the sand with a sword who I wanted to be: A person who told the truth. But wait, the little devil on my shoulder said, what about just keeping quiet? That was a reasonable choice, too.
It wasn’t an easy call. It took some days and more missed lessons in fractions and denominators. But I knew my priorities. I finally went with telling the priest about our playing doctor.
Sure, it was a lot scarier than not telling. But who was Father Postert, anyway, in comparison to my Ama? What was he going to do? Give me a few prayers of penance to recite? I prayed all the time anyway. It was a no brainer.
Plus, I continued to reason, by telling the priest, the sin of playing doctor would be forgiven. It was gone. Through the magic of sacraments and other grown up stuff I barely understood there wasn’t any sin, there wasn't any secret between me and my Ama and everyone could live happily ever after..
So when the time came for my first confession, I stood in line and when it was my turn, I went into the confessional, I kneeled down and squinted past the wooden screen to see Father Postert leaning forward listening with his chin in his hand. I began the prayer, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned” then I choked up a bit as out as my sins filed out of one by one. First came the venial ones about cursing, and my list was long because I spoke both Spanish and English. There was the time I made my sister faint when I planted a spiny hair curler where she was standing barefoot in front of the bathroom mirror. I only wanted to scare her, but when she fainted, I was sure I had sinned. Then came the big cardinal one about my playing doctor. Father Postert sat still through all my confession, and when I was done, he talked about God’s mercy and I went through a forest of new words, until I saw the path forward and that my sins were now forgiven.
I left the confessional with wobbly legs and went to kneel some more, this time in front of the Virgin Mary’s statue. I got on with my penance of six Hail Mary’s and six Our Fathers. It took a while but it was nothing compared to the load of worry I was able to lay down and walk away from.
The next Sunday was Easter and I was ready to receive my Holy Communion wearing my new dress, which I stylishly wore with my imaginary sword.
My Ama never found out about my playing doctor, which was the way I wanted it. As for caldo, I use my Ama’s recipe to make it every winter.
Each time, I think of that time long ago when I adroitly avoided an eternity in H-E-Double L. And whether by the grace of God or my own doing, I don’t know, but I enjoy my caldo with a well-deserved, dearly-fought-for clear conscience.
My history with using food for comfort is something I’m still working on-- but for now-- one confession is enough—It’s plenty.
