Birthday Soup

I had not thought deeply about the word “stoic” before, or at the very least, not deeply enough to warrant a memory. I mostly associated the word with the face of a rock: still, unmoving, changeable. I pictured the Easter Island Moai, century-old statues which had stood the test of time. Rocks, indifferent to the world around them, even when shaped and carved into massive human figures. The monotony of these sculptures, forever entrenched to the one spot in the Earth, did not appeal to me.

I learned from brief internet research that Stoicism is an ethics system preaching patience, logic, and above all, indifference, as the keys to happiness. I felt no connection to these ancient ideas, and was tempted to push it aside. However, as I stared blankly into my computer screen, I began to think about what I had learned as a child.

My father, and his two parents especially, are tough, although they would never characterize themselves so. Deeply set in routine, any sign of frustration was a deviation from the norm, a sign to me of a serious problem. Three words I often heard at family gatherings in the brisk winters of Buffalo or in the hot, humid summers of Houston, Texas exemplified this demeanor: Cool, calm, and collected. Quoted while driving through a snowstorm or amidst angry honking in traffic, this phrase cemented itself in my memory as a family motto.

My grandfather and my household as a whole stressed participation in sports in childhood, and as I took to the field in pee-wee soccer, I would often cry as my team used my ball as the game ball. As I grew older, I found my feet, and took pride in playing as a calm defender, always aiming to keep a level head.

Beyond the three C’s, another family phrase seemingly centered around this term Stoicism was coined by my great-grandfather Edward Colback. Much like cool, calm, and collected, his words were quoted seriously and in jest equally:

“Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can.

Seldom in a woman, never in a man.”

In seventh grade, I recited this poem aloud, deadpan, as a part of a project on the concept of patience. My classmates did not find it nearly as funny as my two grandparents did.

Three days following birthday soup, I had settled back into online weekday classes. With my brother and mom out of the house, I was left alone with my dad, as we clicked away on our laptops on separate floors. We both had established routines. He would sit in a green sofa chair, answering emails and attending meetings for a seemingly endless calendar of events, while I sat in my mother’s old black office chair at my desk. This quarantine schedule had gone on so long that my father had somehow burst a seam in his seat from overuse, much to the amusement and annoyance of my mom. He had shrugged and took over the brown leather recliner for his new workspace.  

This afternoon I was lying on a couch, finished with zooms for the day, but in general, inexplicably drained.

Suddenly, my phone lit up next to me.

A text from my dad read, “Could you help with dishes?”

Dinner preparations had begun. I trudged to the kitchen.

As I entered, he looked up from chopping carrots and celery with a large cleaver and shouted, “Hey Google, pause,” silencing The Daily playing at high volume.

“How was your day?” he asked, gathering bits of orange and green into a bowl.

“Ah, I don’t know, average?” My standard reply. “What about you, lots of meetings?”

“Always,” he said with a wry smile, eyes glued to the cutting board. We had had this conversation hundreds of times.

I made my way to the sink where a heaping pile of mismatched ceramic and tupperware awaited. I rinsed the dirtiest dishes; the water was blistering hot.

My dad finished with the last of the vegetables, and then carefully opened a bag of chicken thighs. The smell of soy sauce and white pepper filled the room, but my mind was empty as I filled the detergent slot in the dishwasher.

“Can I get your opinion on something?”

“Of course,” I answered.

As he talked about a problem at work, I paced around the butcher’s block. My dad remained almost motionless, even as he turned his attention to his final preparations before frying. After our discussion, I realized my job had finished, and I returned to my office chair.

Some minutes later, I heard a sing-songy cry from downstairs: “Dinner!” As I returned to the kitchen, lights were on, a new podcast was blasting, the range hood was at its highest setting. My father effortlessly juggled three woks by the stove with no indication of a struggle. Again, “Hey Google, pause!” and the kitchen returned to normal.

Digging the last few noodles out of the murky bottom of the soup bowl is like looking for your phone in a dark bedroom, but by now I have mastered the task, twirling my chopsticks around and looping the last few escapees.

Reflecting, I am able to somewhat appreciate Easter Island Moai. Daily, I talk with my mother and father, exchanging the same conversation a hundredth-and-first time, as these rocks stared across the same coastline for another decade.

Collecting the two bowls from the butcher’s block, I watch as the last remnants of soup crash like waves on the shore of an island. As I move to leave the room, content, my mom asks,

“How was the soup?”