I walk inside from the the brisk outdoors on a cold winter day a couple years ago. The firewood crackles from inside the fireplace. The aroma of herbs and spices enter my slightly frozen nose. The steam rises from the filled pot. I know my mom is making Chicken Noodle Soup.

After taking off layer upon layer of clothing, my mom tells me, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

I head upstairs to work on homework. The scent from something cooking downstairs lingers around my room, making it hard to concentrate. My stomach betrays me, and I feel my body running out of energy.  Continuing to work on an empty stomach, I wait and bear through the hungry feeling.

I hear a voice yelling from downstairs. It’s my mom. Opening the door to leave my bedroom, the smell of the food fills the house. I head downstairs, sit at the table and wait.

My mom walks over and sets down a bowl filled with the delicious soup. With steam still rising from the bowl, I grab a roll and rip it apart. Dipping the bread in the broth, my body warms.

I slowly enjoy every bite of the chicken noodle soup and the broth from the bowl. After, I enjoy laying by the fire and falling asleep to the smell of our Christmas tree and the Elf playing in the background.