A Dash of Saffron

A grotesque chicken carcass swirls in the pot of boiling water, tendons, bone marrow, and fat, all boiling down into a mouthwatering broth. The skeleton of a once full chicken haunts the aluminum pot as ghosts of soups past howl and hiss at the overboiling water. Their cries scream for hours until I stand up and turn down the gas, the flame flickering down until their wails are silenced to whispers.

My mother grabs the large wooden cutting board, carrying hundreds of scars from past knives, and brings over a massive turnip. The misshapen purple root doesn’t look as if it were meant to be eaten, dented and bruised, roots cascading over the board and spilling over the table. But once I grasp the largest knife I can find and make that first chop, the earthy, sharp spice of the root cuts into the air, distracting me just for a moment from the hearty broth simmering right beside me. That sharp smell transports me back to Thanksgiving Eve, 2014, when my eight-year-old hands were raw from chopping. I begged my grandfather to take over and soon his large, calloused hands, once youthful and full of life, grabbed the knife with a playful shake of his head. I can still hear his laughter echoing through the halls as I ran to go play outside.

My mother instructs me next to chop the onions, three white and three red. But, I grab four whites and only two reds, since my grandfather thinks red onions take all the attention. My eyes pool up with tears as soon as I dig my knife in, but the sweet and pungent smell of the onion’s flesh is completely worth it. I was transported to November 23rd, 2016, when that same smell wafted through my grandmother’s kitchen as my grandfather carefully peeled the onions and I chopped them. That same year I was trusted to handle the big steak knife rather than the dull antique butter knife. I still remember the weight of the thing, and how it sliced through the thick onion smooth as butter.

The carrots always bring me the most conflict because carrots are one of those things that I never eat boiled, or at all. But here, it seems right. The strong sweetness and earthiness harmonize with the broth. An ode to my grandfather and me. So, I look past my internal disgust and start blindly chopping, piece by piece. And when I am brought back to reality, the diced carrots consume the wooden board like an orange monster, challenging the quiet powers of the celery, the most underrated but integral part of the structure. Protesting the celery, my grandfather even acted like a kid even at seventy years old. And no matter how much we all wanted it, the celery was left to slowly rot in the bottom of my grandmother’s fridge. But now, this Thanksgiving, the celery finally sees the light outside the bottom drawer, saved from its banishment to the underworld.

As the broth comes to a boil again, the Garlic powder overtakes my nose, suffocating the room as my mother generously pours it into the pot. Next, the paprika and Chile powder to satisfy our fiery tongues. But of course, no spice compares to the pain when I challenged my grandfather to a wasabi eating contest; and to my disappointment, my grandfather and his next-level spice tolerance took the prize. 

I drop in fresh bay leaves even though I am convinced they won’t add anything. But this is his recipe and that’s what it calls for. All the filler spices that I could never tell apart: Parsley, Thyme, Coriander, Oregano, Rosemary. And finally, I sneak in my grandfather’s secret touch, which we hid from my grandmother every year, a dash of saffron, our special secret to bring the broth to completion.

I lift the massive wooden board by myself, my arms buckling at the weight of the rainbow of vegetables. As I bring it over to the boiling broth, my mother scrapes the contents into the enormous aluminum pot. I watch my onions slowly sinking, the lumpy diced turnips finding their place, the carrots consuming the broth, and finally, the small, diced celery pieces, finally having their moment in the Thanksgiving soup. The familiar smell of saffron wafts into my nostrils, bringing me back to countless Thanksgivings with full stomachs and wide smiles.

But as my grandfather sits in hospice on November 13th, we hold his hand, tears streaming down all our faces, realizing this will be our first Thanksgiving without him.

Avery Davis