I learned to make it when I was twenty-three and found myself alone with a fever pushing forty degrees Celsius. My mom was far away, my friends were at work, and I was lying in my rented apartment, unable to even get up to pour myself a glass of water. So, I called my grandmother. She dictated the recipe to me over the phone. Her voice was calm, as if she knew that this soup would pull me through.

Chicken, onion, carrot, bay leaf. Nothing fancy. Yet, as I cooked it, I felt I wasn't alone—that someone unseen was standing right there, holding my hand. I ate it for three days. And on the third day, I realized I had recovered. Not just from the cold, but from something more.

Since then, I make it whenever I’m feeling low—when I’m tired, sad, or when my world feels like it’s falling apart. It doesn’t solve my problems, but it gives me a moment to pause. While I cook, I think. While I slice the carrot, I breathe. While I wait for the water to boil, I remember that I’ve coped before—and I’ll cope again.

The recipe is simple. Cover the chicken with water, bring to a boil, and skim off the foam. Add a whole onion, a carrot, and a bay leaf. Simmer for an hour. Then remove the vegetables and add potatoes. Make the noodles from scratch: flour, an egg, and a pinch of salt. Roll out the dough and cut it into strips. Drop them into the pot five minutes before the soup is done. That’s it. No spices other than salt and black pepper. Nothing fancy.

But it’s different every time. Because each time, I’m making it for a different version of myself. For the tired me. The scared me. The angry me. And the soup accepts me however I am. It doesn’t ask what happened. It’s simply there. Warm, simple, and comforting.

I have other recipes now, too—complex, interesting ones from cuisines around the world. But this one is the main one. It’s my first aid. My childhood in a bowl. It’s my grandmother, who used to say: "The main thing, Dashka, is not to forget to eat. The rest will fall into place."

Do you have a dish like that? One that isn’t just about the taste, but about something more?

Darya