April 7, 2026 · 11:55 am

Chicken Soup

There’s something inherently special about chicken soup. It’s not just the flavor, although that alone has tremendous merit. It’s also the magic it works as a tonic for what ails people, like a cold, Covid or the respiratory flu. It’s comfort food on steroids. I’d go so far as to say my homemade chicken soup has a medicinal quality so great it could probably regrow a limb, or put hair on your chest—whichever you prefer.

There’s nothing complex about my mom’s recipe, though. The ingredients are simple and probably what everyone currently has on hand—some fresh veggies (like carrots, celery and yellow onion), ground black pepper, a little parsley and can upon can of chicken broth or chicken bouillon cubes. Of course, I boil two or three whole chicken legs and save all of the broth and a little of the fat for the soup. I like the whole legs because they’re mostly dark meat, which makes the soup more flavorful and I always get them from Tony’s Deli in Williamsport—one of the best butcher shops/delicatessens in the area (in my humble opinion). I aim for a nice balance of broth and meat/veggies so that it pleases most of those I’m feeding. Near the end stages of cooking, I throw in a few handfuls of noodles and let them soften. I use Kluski, but any egg noodle would do.

As for quantities, I’m embarrassed to say that I add some and not a specific amount which would make it easier to duplicate. Just like my husband’s parents did, the word “some” would appear on their Pennsylvania Dutch family recipes and I would cringe when I tried to recreate their favorites for my family. How much flour is in that dough? Some. How much cinnamon and butter are in that recipe for apple dumplings? Some. It’s so frustrating when I encounter that, so I really do feel your pain if you’re planning to try this recipe anytime soon. But isn’t it more exciting to just wing it anyway?

At any rate, chicken soup is my go-to meal for wintry weather and particularly for friends and family who have fallen ill with something respiratory. There’s something truly brilliant about the steamy blend of brothy goodness, savory meat and delectable vegetables that I almost crave it in July. Almost.

Not surprisingly, there’s real science behind this nearly perfect food for people who are under the weather. I Googled it, because of course I did.  According to AI and Dr. Stephen Rennard at the University of Nebraska Medical Center in a study published by the American College of Chest Physicians, chicken soup reduces inflammation, improves the velocity of nasal mucus and hydrates—all good things for alleviating the symptoms of the common cold. And it’s been used therapeutically for thousands of years, apparently. Who knew?

A great online resource for tasty recipes I’ve followed for some time is the Stay at Home Chef, Rachel Farnsworth. She shares short, easy-to-follow videos of a variety of homecooked meals she prepares on Instagram in just minutes. Her website is a wealth of information, too. Check out her sites if you feel so inclined. And let us not forget Webb Weekly’s own columnist, Andrea McElroy (Andrea’s Home Cookin’). She offers terrific recipes and cooking tips both online and in the physical publication, right here in Lycoming County.

I know most of the people in my household are big fans of chicken soup, except one of my daughters who hates soup and certainly wouldn’t eat it on purpose. I’ve personally witnessed her twin sister, however, enjoying my soup. Cold. For breakfast. With a straw. That’s just plain weird, but not all that surprising.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably making a batch of chicken soup). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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March 31, 2026 · 1:27 pm

All That Jazz

I have a confession to make: I love caffeine. Just like a lot of people, I depend on it to get stuff done. Stuff I don’t necessarily want to do. Like taxes, cleaning up cat puke and spending a ridiculous amount of time in the kitchen or laundry room. Truth be told, I need my caffeine fix to overcome a default setting of abject lethargy. It’s embarrassing, I know.

What’s ironic is that I don’t especially like coffee. I tried acquiring a taste for it in college while I pulled all-nighters, to no avail. I resolved that issue eventually by mixing it in my dark chocolate hot cocoa so that I can barely taste its bitterness. Problem solved.

Oddly enough, it only takes about a teaspoonful to get me revved, or as my husband likes to say, “jazzed.” As in, “Oh no, you’re all jazzed now and I’ll have to deal with THIS version of you!” But this version of me feels invincible—like vacuuming the entire house, cleaning the gutters or going on a 10-mile hike (not that I actually will). Needless to say, “caffeinated me” irritates him to no end because, of course, I talk incessantly and remind him of things he needs to do. I also interrupt his precious scrolling time. I figure I’m just helping him help himself to not be so addicted to his phone.

I think what aggravates him most about this situation is that he prefers being energized early in the day while I prefer later in the afternoon and into the evening. What’s more, he could consume five cups of java and not feel a thing, whereas the mere thought of ingesting a few sips of the brewed wonder makes my leg bounce in anticipation. It’s par for the course, though—take two people who are opposite in almost every way imaginable, and invariably they marry each other. That’s us.

In the end, I guess we’ve learned to tolerate each other’s differences—even the ones that involve caffeine, which delights me because I can’t imagine having to sacrifice either my dear husband or my dear coffee/cocoa fix. That said, caffeine makes me happy. It’s like sprinkling joy all over my day—especially on the days I have to will myself to do anything remotely cognitive, like balancing a checkbook, paying bills or (you guessed it) writing this column.

That said, my brain just works better on caffeine. It bounces from one task to the next with remarkable hyper-focus which helps me accomplish a host of gotta-dos in record time, all thanks to a liquid form of motivation. It inspires greatness within me regarding physical tasks, too, causing me to achieve the impossible—like making our mattress pad fit on the bed without committing hari kari.

Out of sheer curiosity, I Googled images of caffeine and apparently the crystals look wild under a microscope—like clusters of jagged little particles, poised to wreak havoc wherever they might land. It’s no wonder it does what it does to the body and brain. I encourage you to Google it, too. You won’t be disappointed.

Not surprisingly, frappés are my decadent treat, especially if they contain pumps of Frappuccino roast and dark chocolate java chips. My doctor will be pleased to know that I don’t make a habit of ordering them that often because it’s basically diabetes in a cup. That said, I look forward to meeting up with my dear friend, Barb, at Starbucks in the very near future. I’m sure we’ll catch up on all the latest happenings in our lives and enjoy something delicious (and caffeinated) in the process.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably sipping coffee-laced cocoa). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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March 24, 2026 · 1:39 pm

Dog Years

If we’re lucky, some of the best years of our lives are considered the best because they are spent in the company of a dog. It’s what I think of when I hear the term “dog years” anyway. It’s not how old a dog may be in terms of human aging, but instead, it’s the expanse of time we humans get to bond with, love and be loved by a dog. Important distinction.

Our family has been fortunate to have had three amazing dogs over the years. Four if you count the one we adopted for my dad who was struggling with Alzheimer’s and needed companionship. That godsend-of-a-dog, Bear, is now living out his golden years with extended family since my dad passed away over ten years ago.

Sadly, we lost all three of our dogs; two to cancer and one to kidney disease. But not before we relished their tail-wagging days with us. I even found it ironically heartwarming that Jasper, our black lab mix, made it a habit to follow me into the shower or anywhere else I happened to be going. But like anyone else, we had not-so-fun times, too. Like the occasions that resulted in irreparable damage to our windowsills, being dragged in the street by our 95-pound yellow lab/greyhound mix and the 17-year stint I spent on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors after our Bichon Frisé, Jack, indiscriminately whizzed on them. He never quite grasped the idea of asking to go outside to do his business despite a boatload of encouragement. But I’ll never forget the night we chose him from the litter, an overgrown guinea pig lying on my chest, nuzzling my neck.

We decided not to adopt another rescue dog for a myriad of reasons, chiefly because we didn’t want to say goodbye after a life that would never be long enough. But it’s not as if we’ve sworn off dogs entirely. We still interact on a daily basis with the ones that live in our neighborhood and with those we encounter in our travels if the occasion presents itself. Not surprisingly, we get our “dog fix” if we’re permitted to pet said dogs and talk to them as if they were children. They really are children—just furrier. Most of them love the extra attention, and the tasty treats my husband always carries in his pocket. If, for whatever reason, we can’t pet them, I always smile. Dogs know your smile was meant for them.

What I find funny is the fact that I’ll often remember the dogs’ names before I recall the owners’ names. And I most definitely know which dog belongs with which owner—just like my kids’ friends; I always knew which parents were connected to which kids, but I didn’t necessarily remember the adults’ names. Sorry, parents of my kids’ friends. It’s a character flaw I’m not especially proud of.

Likewise, I’m hoping the people I happen upon in the neighborhood aren’t offended because part of me is really more interested in their dog. I’ll take note if he or she has a new collar or leash, has just returned from the groomer’s or is absent from his/her human’s side. Of course, I’ll ask why the dog is missing, hoping it’s because of a fun field trip and not due to illness—or, Heaven forbid, their passing. What’s more, my husband and I try to remember to send a card expressing our condolences to the people who have recently lost a dog. I know the cards we’ve received have meant so much. Our good friend, Denny, even went so far as to gift us money so that we might buy something to memorialize our dear Luna, the aforementioned 95-pound lab/greyhound mix. Thankfully, our vet made sure we had paw prints cast in plaster of all our dogs and a nose print and tuft of fur from at least one of them—something tangible that helps us remember the ticking of their nails on the floor and the cool, wet smooshiness of their noses. I often find myself picking up the prints and rubbing my fingers in the indentations of their toe beans, memorizing every curve, recalling their warmth in my hand.

In lieu of that, I still have the trove of neighborhood dogs I pass on my walks, their fuzzy heads destined to be patted, not to mention the ones I see hanging their heads out of car windows, their pink tongues flapping in the wind, smiling broadly in the sun because they know, like I know, dog years are the very best years.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably petting a dog). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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March 18, 2026 · 12:07 pm

What’s the Damage?

When I was young some would say that I was a fairly athletic person, as I participated quite competitively in various sports, both individual and team efforts. As one might expect, I suffered my share of injuries over the years and used a ton of ice and Bengay as therapy. The list mostly included sprained ankles, dislocated fingers and, of course, pulled hamstrings—a sprinter’s lament. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I never tore an ACL or broke any bones back then. Small mercies.

Fast forward to now, when I hurt myself in one way or another, I don’t bounce back as quickly—if at all. It used to be I was laid up for a few days or a week at most, and then I was right back to normal, ready to pull another hammy in the 100m dash.

Once I was pushing 40 however (and now considerably more), it seems the rules have changed—and not for the better. For starters, I can injure myself doing absolutely anything—or nothing at all. I can bend down and pick up a paperclip and wrench my back instantaneously. The twinge is familiar if nothing else and I know I’ll be hibernating on the couch with a heating pad in no time. And why is it that a stiff neck can materialize out of nothingness? I can “sleep wrong” and wind up with utterly debilitating neck pain—the kind that triggers pure anguish over the suggestion of driving a car.

It almost goes without saying that my muscles and joints have aged less than gracefully and I’m sure there’s a bit of arthritis lurking about that adds to my discomfort from time to time—which doesn’t seem fair at all. Who knew that running a full marathon and completing a triathlon in college would ostensibly wreck my knees? Not 21-year-old me. I thought I was invincible.

But what I find completely unwarranted is that the reasoning behind most of my injuries of late have been just plain stupid. Not so long ago, I was out for a walk at dusk enjoying the great outdoors in our neighborhood when I heard a tremendous crash in the woods nearby. Mind you, I clearly heard this crash OVER the music playing in my earbuds—so it had to be deafening. For context, a few weeks prior to this event a very large black bear was seen roaming around our neighborhood. He had broken down a pool fence, torn down one of our bird feeders and had gotten into someone’s trash, destroying the metal can in the process. So naturally when I heard the noise coming from the woods, I assumed it was a BEAR and started running, sprinter that I am, or was, more correctly. In mid-sprint I felt something snap in both of my Achillies tendons, but kept running lest the bear eat me. I then climbed and clawed my way up our hilly front lawn, assuredly tearing my tendons even further. Once I got to the top, I looked back. There was no bear, only an empty street, mocking me. I then hobbled back to the house—a walk of shame if ever there was one. Turns out, a tree had fallen in the woods. Go figure.

Another idiotic event involved taking our tiny dog, Jack, out to do his business in the back yard. He had a habit of wandering forever in circles, searching for the perfect spot. Because, of course, he did. While he was busy sniffing and searching, I inadvertently stepped in a rabbit hole I had forgotten was there. It wasn’t a very big hole, just enough to affirm that I was, in fact, a fool. I can’t tell you how many times we intended to fill in said hole, but didn’t. As a result, I wound up with a hyperextended knee. I Googled it, thereby confirming my suspicions.

Just the other week, I once again felt searing pain—this time in my shoulder/neck/scapula area. I hadn’t lifted a car or anything. Nope. I was just stretching. In the morning. Like a normal person. I wasn’t even out of bed yet. My feet hadn’t touched the floor. But I knew the instant I felt the stab of pain that I would be on the couch with the heating pad in no time, assessing the damage.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (anxiously awaiting my next stupid injury). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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March 10, 2026 · 4:13 pm

Still Here in Spirit

I’m sure a lot of people do it—hold on to things that their loved ones used and perhaps cherished during their lifetimes. That’s why they call them keepsakes—something tangible that helps us keep our loved ones close to our hearts even if they’re gone from this earth. In theory, they’re items that hold special significance or meaning because they were once important to the deceased or to the person who ultimately winds up with them. Sad to say, I’ve collected a fair number of mementos over the years. And they all serve the same purpose—connection. Furniture, china, artwork, clothing, jewelry, knickknacks and boxes upon boxes of snapshots that flood our minds with memories the instant we open them. Some of it’s useful, some of it’s not especially.

I realize it makes no sense to hang on to my dad’s wedding band. It’s currently stuffed in a tiny box in a dresser drawer. I sometimes get it out and slide it on my thumb, trying to remember how it looked on his hand. I suppose I could have it made into another piece of jewelry, but I don’t want to change its integrity.  It just doesn’t feel right.

My mom’s and my grandmothers’ rings, by contrast, I decided to resize so I could wear them. Not every day, but more often than I thought I would. It sounds weird but I’d like to think that when I put them on, they’re still with me, at least in spirit. They’ve come along to our granddaughter’s birthday parties, to special dinners, to holiday celebrations, to my aunt’s and uncle’s funerals, to our oldest daughter’s wedding, to one of our twin’s musicals as a choral director, to our other twin’s engagement and to their college graduations and recitals (they were both music majors). Again and again, as I glanced down at my mom’s diamond ring, it’s as if she were sitting right there in the seat next to me, experiencing the music, the performance, the ceremony or whatever was happening at the time.

By the same token, my brother, who I lost to suicide 20 years ago, has been “attending” numerous events that I thought he might appreciate. I wear some of his shirts like a warm hug and if the occasion presents itself, I tell people that I do it because I’m proud of the man he was and that he needs to “get out and about with me.” Occasionally, I’ll open the bottle of cologne I saved just to remember, and it’s as if he’s right there. Likewise, my husband occasionally visits some of his mother’s clothing we’ve stored in the attic and swears he can still smell her perfume even though it’s been almost two decades since we lost her. It’s a way of connecting to his past and I surely understand.

I suppose the weirdest keepsake to date is a plant that my mother-in-law loved and cared for as it sat on a windowsill over her kitchen sink for the longest time. It was an African violet and we kept it alive close to 15 years—no small feat given our less than impressive track record of houseplant survival.

My dear friend, Pam, makes it a habit to say “Good morning” and “Goodnight” to her husband’s urn so that she might better function throughout each day. She also sleeps in Bill’s favorite T-shirts as a rule, helping her to remember him and the occasions when they were purchased. She kept his wedding band and has a gold heart imprinted with his unique thumbprint. Not surprisingly, she has a wealth of pictures and mementos of their times together and she still has a few of his voicemails, so that she won’t ever forget his voice.

Another dear friend, Ann, shared with me that she still has the duty assignment cards that were her aunt’s, who was a volunteer Red Cross Driver during WWI and WWII. That same aunt personally witnessed the Hindenburg explosion in 1937 in New Jersey and Ann wound up with the newspaper clipping from that day. She also kept some dishes and handmade furniture from her great grandparents and poems written by her uncle. Generations of family history were also preserved and passed down to her—something she values beyond measure. Ann also suffered a heartbreaking loss of her teenage son and has kept the model ship he built among a host of special mementos.

I truly understand why people like me keep the keepsakes. It’s so the connection remains and the grief is temporarily replaced by feelings of comfort and remembrance.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably wearing one of my brother’s shirts). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel

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