Again, We're Here With Soup.

Again, soup is here with us.

It has occurred to me that some time has passed. 

This is, of course, always the way. It’s May, and we all have such great intentions to stay present, to remain loyal to our creativities, to mark the passage of one of the best times of the year with reverence and lucidity. And then, through joy and pain and grueling physical labor, we dissociate and it’s suddenly August. 

I would be remiss if I didn’t begin by telling you that this summer has been extraordinary. After a cold and rainy June, July blossomed into an alarmingly tropical fantasia. At Pop+Dutch, we’ve fed and caffeinated people at a rate that’s eclipsing pre-pandemic times, with a staff I have to confess I really love being around almost every day. I have shown my naked body to audiences of hundreds of people, with more joy than I will probably ever be able to find the words for, on more stages than I ever expected to be invited to. Sean has absolutely destroyed dance party after dance party, some planned, some last-minute fill-ins — every single one of them pulsating with sweaty lust and unbridled happiness. There have been new sweeties — notably a hot florist we’ve all fallen in love with, a Black trans woman with a heart made of honey, who can kick her leg up to the moon and has occupied a permanent place in all of our hearts, and a young rambunctious cashier who is the pure embodiment of chaotic good, whose eventual memoirs we are all anxiously awaiting. 

We’ve attended birthday parties for local legends, fundraisers for the future of the town, some of the silliest and most wonderful drag performances I’ve ever seen (do not skip Dina Martina this year, obviously), and Kelly finally made my dream of seeing Beyoncé perform in real life come true. 

This is all to say that we are having so much fun, and are so tired, and I have Covid again.

I tested positive almost a year to the day of my first bout with this shit, and I have to say that this round has been less physically brutal on me, and hopefully less brutal on everyone else in the shop since it’s not actually Carnival Week this year. Sean and the rest of the crew at Pop+Dutch have been absolutely killing it, although I know that when I get back I’ll see their deservedly frayed edges. 

“What are you doing to take care of yourself today?”

This is a question well-meaning people keep asking me. If you’re one of them, this isn’t an attack, but each time I’ve found myself getting a little bristly. Where, in the collective consciousness, did this question bubble up? Is it therapy? Is it Instagram? Is it Instagram therapy? I feel, in the general day-to-day, that this question puts a little too much emphasis on self-reliance in the face of like, climate crisis, the fall of late-stage capitalism, and systemic oppression. But getting asked this question this week has been especially curious to me because I’m just… sick? Isn’t that when other people are supposed to take care of you? The answer of course is that I’ve been resting in the weirdest way, where the hour of the day is meaningless. Waking up coughing in the middle of the night and not panicking that I need to get up at 5:30 to make the biscuits (thank you Sean, I love you). Deciding to drink coffee in the garden and then getting overheated and going back upstairs to lie in bed under a fan. 

It’s been a relief to feel less feverish and delirious, but it’s also been strange to be trapped inside my house at a time of year when rest is at an almost impossible premium. I foolishly believed that I’d test negative every day for the last four, and have found myself stuck in a weird limbo of not being sick enough to sleep all day and not well enough to actually accomplish anything. I’ve been able to watch a little stupid TV, to stare at Women’s World Cup stats and highlights like a zombie, to feed myself a few very strange meals, and — ironically — to get through a few essays in a book about eating alone, Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant: Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone. 

I’ve been eating alone a lot this week, tucked upstairs in bed-quarantine, and while my last dance with this virus left me suckling at popsicles and begging Doritos for one crumb of dopamine, this round has somehow been less demoralizing. 

I’ve been making a kind of game of figuring out how to patch together something marginally delicious and nutritious from what’s left in the freezer, crisper and cupboard this time of year, when the idea of taking a trip to Stop & Shop feels a bit like crossing the Gobi desert barefoot. In truth, one night I did make dinner of a giant cup of lavender tea, and a few cucumbers stuck into the dregs of a container of garlic hummus. The next morning, I obviously woke up feeling absolutely ravenous, and made an entire package of steamed frozen spinach for my breakfast, tossed with a relatively unconscionable amount of salted butter, lemon juice and feta, with a fried egg on top. Lunch that day was similarly bacchanalian in its way — a pile of tater tots, a fresh jalapeño from the window boxes at Pop+Dutch sliced into rings, melted cheddar, and a few chicken nuggets, with spicy mayo like I was stoned and in college again. Is that the most nourishing convalescent meal I can think of? No, but I was hungry, and it was available to me, and I could assemble it without asking anyone for a favor, and it felt fucking great. 

Then, the care packages started rolling in (so many of you offered, and I refused because I don’t want to send you to Stop & Shop either!). Alison and Nelly brought a massive container of avgolemono, which is absolutely one of my favorite soups of all time. Claire dropped off the most enormous garden squash I have ever seen, and an entire tote bag filled with Truro peaches. And Daniil brought a gallon jug of homemade holodnik. If that word doesn’t mean anything to you, it’s basically Russian gazpacho: only instead of tomatoes there are beets. It was garlicky and bright with radishes and cucumbers, and absolutely riddled with fresh dill,and he boiled an egg for both me and Sean to slice into our bowls, with a side of dense, sweet, black bread. 

A bad picture of an extremely curative soup.

Again, we’re here with soup. Again, soup is here with us.

You spend your whole life making soup the second someone falls ill, and then suddenly they do it for you and you go all gooey. 

Tomorrow, if I test positive again, which I almost certainly will, I’m going to try my best to spend part of the day making green chile stew — because that is actually the cure for everything. Did you know that one pod of New Mexico green chile contains more vitamin C than six oranges? That place is crazy, but goddamn if it doesn’t make some magic. Kind of like Provincetown, obviously.

Listen to This Shit: I Made You a Playlist
”I Just Wanna Lay Here” on Apple Music

*Ed note: Flynn has brought to my attention that this platform has recently (again!) promoted and fostered some very far-right, neo-nazi bullshit, so keep your eyes peeled for the possible new home of this vital and beloved soup content. <3

---

You’re reading “Soup and Despair,” an occasionally weekly newsletter by Sarah Flynn and Rebecca Orchant. It’s about food, feelings, and surviving the dark times. If someone forwarded you this email, it’s because they love you and they want you to eat. You can subscribe to it too!