A kitchen memory holds a lesson about tenderness while living with COPD

The other day, while preparing one of my favorite meals, I reached for the pan where I’d just fried pork chops. Instead of rinsing it, I poured water straight into the sizzling skillet, watching the browned bits loosen and swirl like sediment in a creek bed. When I poured this savory liquid over my turnip greens, I was transported back to my mother’s kitchen. That’s when it hit me: sop.

Not just the word, but the memory of it. Sop was my mother’s way of stretching flavor, ensuring nothing went to waste. She’d pour pot likker from the greens over cornbread, or sop up pork drippings with a slice of white bread, folding it like a letter to be read by the tongue. I never met my grandmother — she died before I was born — but my mother carried her table forward like a quilt, stitched with gestures of care. Sop was part of that inheritance.

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Now, as I live with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), sop has returned to me — not as nostalgia, but as necessity. Eating with COPD requires adaptation. On difficult days, chewing feels like labor, seasonings become too sharp, and textures too demanding. Sop is food that meets me where I am. It softens bread into tenderness, turns broth into sustenance, and allows me to eat without fighting for air. It’s not just nourishment — it’s a metaphor for living with illness: dipping into what remains, soaking up what’s still warm, and letting it hold you.

When I lean over the pan, steam rises like a hymn. I breathe it in, slowly and deliberately, letting it open the tight places in my chest. Steam and breath share a kinship — visible, fleeting, and essential. In that moment, I’m not just eating; I’m reclaiming breath, memory, and presence. Some days, I only have the energy to eat the sop and must rest before I can finish my meal.

Sop teaches me that survival isn’t always firm — sometimes it’s tender, sometimes it’s slow. It’s a spoonful of something familiar, eaten with reverence. In those moments, I’m back at my mother’s table: the greens simmering, the bread soft, the table set. I take my place and wait for my father to wash his hands and join us.

For those of us living with COPD, sop can remind us that adaptation is not surrender. Sometimes, it is survival with tenderness. It is the art of making do, honoring memory, and finding nourishment in what remains. Sop is more than food; it is a way of reclaiming dignity, one spoonful at a time.

Note: COPD News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult your physician or other qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of COPD News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues about chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.