“Can we make a huge batch of chicken noodle soup?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“A really massive pot,” he added, “so there’s plenty for both of us.”

As the water came to a bubble, he dragged his little wooden step stool across the floor to reach the counter and sprinkle in the fresh herbs.

Then he paused, and looked up at me with sudden curiosity.

“Mommy, why did nobody want to eat the noodle soups at Grandma Rosalind’s big party?”

I turned the burner down and looked at his open, innocent face.