As for the diet, well, it’s not like I’m only eating soup all day.  The soups are meant to supplement the other foods I’m eating, which are being so generously prepared by my dad, a master in the kitchen.   Every single day, I get a different soup that tastes and smells akin to a strong herbal tea, except that there’s a chunk of chicken floating in it.  Some days it’s wolfberry or black dates that are the main ingredients, which add sweetness to an otherwise bitterly herbaceous broth.  Other days, there’s a bundle of what look like tree branches floating in my soup.  I tried eating them at first, only to learn that consuming them is like eating the leaves out of your tea or straight up tree bark.  Oops.

Any Chinese person of my parents’ generation will tell you that these soups are vital to a speedy recovery for the mother and a healthy, happy baby.  I’m not sure if there’s a placebo effect going on here, but I am feeling pretty good, and The Gravy Baby is a remarkably calm, easy baby.  As for the flavor of the soups, I can’t say that every single soup has been a culinary delight, but there is something comforting about having chicken soup twice a day.  Since my consumption of the soups doesn’t seem to be hurting anything right now, I’m happy to do it.  As the hubby says, Chinese medicine has been around for a long time, and generations of women have done what I’m doing, so there must be something to it.  He tries every single soup, too, so I guess  either he’s healing himself as well or joining me in solidarity.

So, there it is.  I’m doing my duty as a filial daughter and new mother, in the eyes of a Chinese person.  I wish there was some ancestral god I could high-five right now, because that way I’d be able to inject some American into it.  Or I guess I could melt some cheese on my soup or something.

Oh, actually, that does not sound good at all.