Minestrone whenever the weather turned cold.
She poured everything into cheap plastic containers, labeled the lids with a black marker in her looping handwriting, and carried them downstairs to the basement freezer.
CHICKEN NOODLE – NOV.
BEEF BARLEY – FOR GREG.
SPLIT PEA – SAVE SOME FOR LILY.
The freezer itself was an ancient white chest freezer Dad bought years before he died.
It was enormous.
The lid stuck every time you opened it, and the motor hummed so loudly you could sometimes hear it from upstairs.
Dad had originally bought it for venison.
After he died, Mom filled it with soup instead.
That Sunday, she glanced at me and said,
“I’m filling it before winter. That way everybody will have enough.”
I laughed.
“Mom, I live two hours away. I’m not driving all the way to Altoona for frozen soup.”
“You’ll come,” she said.
Then she stirred the pot again.
