“Woah, are you alright honey?” a woman’s voice calls to me from the other end of a long tunnel. I open my eyes, and I’m staring at the long, stringy fibers of a dark maroon rug. “Honey?” It’s my mother! When did she get here? Did I pass out or something?

     “Yeah, I’m ok. Just--” I say in a smooth voice, coming from deep within my vocal cords. Why is my voice so low? “--stood up too fast.” I press my palms to the carpet and raise my head to my mother. She looks a few years younger than the last time I saw her. That’s not usually how it goes, right?

    “Let me help you.” She comes over and reaches around my back to grab my shoulder with her left hand. With her other hand, she reaches under my right armpit and gently raises me from my knees. I am most definitely not myself. My legs are much longer than they should be, and I’m wearing black dress pants. My pants match the suit jacket I’m wearing, and go nicely with my dark blue tie. My shoes are a pair of large, shiny black dress shoes. Am I wearing men's clothes? I look down at my hand, and it is tan and wizened. I have a wedding ring on; a thick gold band around my ring finger. It looks like my dad’s wedding ring. I think I’m in my dad’s body!

     “Philip?” my mom asks me. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her concern is wrinkling her forehead. I am my father! 

     “Yeah sorry, I’m okay,” I say and glance behind her. There is a small table covered in a large piece of fabric acting as a tablecloth. The two ends each have a steaming bowl of soup, and there is a candle in the center and some dainty pink flowers in a narrow vase. I recognize it as the anniversary dinner my siblings and I threw for them a few years ago. I made dinner. “I just need to eat.” I walk over to the table, and my mom follows after pondering for a few seconds over whether she believes I’m alright. I look around; it’s my parents' dining room. The walls are a light mint shade, which doesn’t match the maroon carpet at all. I tried to tell them, but my dad loves the carpet. There are pictures of my brother, me, our parents, and our cat hanging on the walls, and a dusty light fixture on the ceiling. I can faintly smell the fresh, floral laundry detergent that mom loves coming from the laundry room next to us. It’s more environmentally friendly than the common brands; it’s so natural you can almost smell the soil of the flowers in your clothes if you sniff deeply. The chairs are small and made of dark wood. The back and legs are scratched from being pushed and pulled over and over. My mom and I lower ourselves into the chairs and get settled at the table. 

     “How’s the soup?” my voice calls out from the room over. Yes, my voice, not coming from my mouth. My mom snatches up her spoon and begins clumsily stirring the soup; trying to sound like she’s eating spoonful after spoonful.  

    “Oh, it’s a delicious sweetie! You got the spices just right!” my mom calls over her shoulder. My mouth falls open slightly and my eyebrows furrow, then raise, then furrow. Well, internally they do. My father stays stoic like he’s seen her do this too many times for all these feelings to show. She lied to me! I can’t decide whether to be angry or offended; maybe both. I rack my brain for the memory of this dinner, and how my dad responded. I can hear him and my mother in my mind, telling me how great the dinner is. I look across the table at my mother, and she’s looking at me expectantly with wide eyes. Nope, I am going to lie to myself. No way. But my dad is stronger than me and fights my protest inside his brain.

    “Mmmm, the best yet honey!” I say. I cannot believe I just did that. They told me it was great, and now I have a pot of this soup at home waiting for Kai’s parents! Well, now I need to taste it. I grab the spoon and place it on the oily surface, filling it with broth, pepper flakes, and soft chunks of vegetables. My father’s arm resists, and I can feel him cringing away from the steaming spoon. My lips pinch together in protest, but I force my spoon into my mouth. All at once, the taste hits me; the broth sloshes around my mouth, the mushy vegetables squish between my teeth, and an overwhelming spice shoots over my tongue and down my throat. Holy crap, this is terrible! I close my eyes and force the hot slush down as fast as I can. 

    When I open my eyes, the sharp taste in my mouth has been replaced with a bright, salty flavor. I’m holding a large wooden spoon, the bottom half a darker brown from being wet. A huge, black pot sits on a gas stove in front of me, with large handles that look pointy and awkward. This is my great-grandmother’s pot! My mom has it and told me that her grandmother gave it to her when she moved into her first apartment. The liquid inside is a thick, rich orange. Black beans, tomatoes, and colorful squash surface then sink as the heat bubbles the soup. The light, garlic steam rises from the pot and rolls to the sides as it hits the ceiling. The ceiling is low, I could reach up and touch it. The stove is part of a stubby counter, which is next to a small, brown leather couch. A small table sits in the center of the room, and cupboards line all the walls. Most of them are open, revealing organized pots, pans, flours, sugars, spices, vegetables, and utensils. Pictures are everywhere on the walls; black and white photos of three young Native American girls playing outside or posing for the picture inside this room. Is this a room? It seems more like a trailer. I can see around the corner that there is a bedroom and bathroom tucked down a small hill and one door on the other far end. I remember my mom telling me that her grandmother lived in a trailer on the Coeur d’Alene reservation. Am I my great-grandmother? I’m wearing a white apron (though the front has yellowed) with small flowers dotted all over it. My skin is dark brown and my long black hair is braided around me. 

    I spot an old, red leather book on the counter next to me. I gently place the spoon back into the pot and lean over the book. It’s a journal actually, and stubby cursive fills every page as I glance through. It’s open to what looks like a recipe, but parts of it are in a language I don’t recognize. Most of the directions are in English, but some ingredients and descriptions are not. I squint at the name of the recipe, trying to decide if the handwriting is messy English or another language. I’m pretty sure it says “Sister’s Soup”. I look at the ingredients: winter squash, onions, olive oil, garlic, pepper, corn, beans. She’s making my soup! I look to my right, and on the other end of the counter, there is a cutting board and a large knife. Half an onion sits face down on the board along with a pile of brown crunchy pieces. The onion isn’t brown like the ones I was using, it’s white. I reach over and feel these bits; they are the skin of the onion that she’s taken off. You take off the skin of an onion? I feel like such an idiot. Of course, you do.  

     I walk back to the soup and taste it again. I think it tastes perfect, but I can feel that my great-grandmother is not pleased. I reach to a cupboard above my head and skim the labels. I push up on my toes to see the array of spices that extend to the back of the cupboard. I recognize some of these; dried thyme, oregano, nutmeg. I reach for the oregano, but my arm’s years of experience override me. She grabs a tiny glass jar from the way back of the cupboard filled with thin green leaves. They are all different sizes, but all the same shape: a line down the middle with stretched semicircles on each side. Each one looks like a different pair of lips if you turn them sideways. This is interesting; I’ve never added these leaves to my soup. They aren’t on the recipe. My grandmother gave my mom her recipe and my mom gave it to me. They have never made it like this. I twist open the small lid of the jar and pick out a leaf. It doesn’t smell like anything in particular, except your typical leaf smell. I nibble a small bite of the pointy top, and a sharp bitterness fills my mouth. I crinkle my nose and wipe the tip of my tongue with my thumb in an attempt to remove what I can of the chewed leaf. Why is she putting this in the soup? I flick the leaf back into the jar and reach for the lid on the counter next to me. But she’s fighting me! She knows something I don’t. I relax my arms, and let her guide me.

    “How is it?” I mouth to Kai after looking over my shoulder. We’re standing in my kitchen refilling his parents’ drinks, and I finally have a chance to ask him. 

     “It was surprisingly good! I think they’re liking it,” he whispers back at me. 

    “Surprisingly?” I ask, putting my hand on my hip. “Did you not think I could cook Kai?” I really accent the consonants. I’m not actually mad; I’ve tasted how terrible my soup is. 

     “It’s not that I didn’t think you could do it, it’s just that you made me pizza last week and I- I just wasn’t expecting the soup to be as good as it was that’s all…” he trails off. 

      “Mmmm hmmm,” I tease, smiling. I grab the two glasses and head back to the dining room. Geez, I guess I’ll need my great-grandmother’s help to make pizza too. Does everybody lie to me about my cooking? I’m going to have to go back and grill everybody that ever complimented a meal I made. Kai follows me and we sit back down at the table. The table is usually messy, but I shoved all that crap upstairs until the dinner is over. Now the table looks similar to my parents’ anniversary dinner; white table cloth, flowers, candles, and soup. The soup isn’t the same though, thank goodness. 

     “So, Kai tells us your family is Coeur d’Alene?” Kai’s father asks me as I hand him back his glass. 

     “Yes, my mom’s side is all Coeur d’Alene.” 

     “Do you still have family on the reservation?” his mom asks. 

     “No, my great-grandmother was the last one in our family to live there. She was a great cook, she used to make this soup actually…” 

By the end of the dinner, I probably blab way too much about my great-grandmother and her soup and her trailer and her recipe book and her spices. But if you had an experience that you’ll never forget, wouldn’t you do the same?