Atta Boy

It's a wonder everyone isn't sick right now given the see-saw rhythm of the weather this January.

And of course some people are.

Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."

Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.

Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.

In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."

So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.

Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.

I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.

Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.

Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.

Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.

It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.

I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.

Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.

Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.

And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.