C'mon Jack
Birds do it, bees do it/Even educated fleas do it/Let's do it, let's take a nap.
Dear ones, how are you? There have been, for me, in the weeks since we last spoke some days where the ability to be a person eluded me. How long can you stand on a precipice before you either jump, turn back, or just sit the fuck down? It was, somehow, nearly two years ago when Flynn first reminded me that I could be a wolf instead, howl into the void, and throw Daniil into the bay — or something like that. It’s here, in its entirety in case you need it too.
We have all dealt with the heretofore unthinkable length of our modern plague in our own ways. Remember when we were all baking so much bread it caused a flour shortage? Our desperately optimistic Zoom parties went away ages ago. The outdoor gatherings on whatever sunny day we could muster last winter have given way to sometimes just saying “fuck it, come inside.” When it felt safe after boosters to go out to eat and clink glasses across a bar, it felt a little too good to be true, which it was, of course. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that Omicron’s peak may have been reached, that there will be a period, however brief, when we can feel comfortable again hugging all of our friends, before whatever Greek letter comes to test our patience and resolve next.
Almost everyone I know has either tested positive or been exposed over the last three months. Some of those folks felt frustrated to have dodged the virus for so long, only to have it catch up with them in the end. Lots of them feel emboldened — they’ve got antibodies for a few months, so they get to theoretically go live a pretty normal life for a while, which is a strange thing to feel envious of. Even those of our country-folk who went about their lives as if nothing were different at all are starting to come apart at the seams in novel and unexpected ways. All of our precautions have grown tiresome, our boundaries confusing, and sometimes it feels like no one knows what we’re supposed to be doing.
You have doubtless heard some or another idiot proclaim that they are “done with Covid” in some forum this month — mostly white people on cable talk shows, but also sort of the director of the CDC and the White House Press Secretary, as well. Many of us know that this is far from the first time the CDC has failed Americans in their time of need, but for a lot of us, it’s the first time we’ve experienced it firsthand. I promise you, that even if you do not know it, you have loved ones who are immunocompromised, and are therefore at greater risk and in need of more protection. In fact, even if you don’t, you should still give a shit about those people, because they are people! Whole human beings with lives, and stories, and families and feelings! I naively thought that it went without saying that people with underlying health conditions and comorbidities shouldn’t be sacrificed upon the altar of Applebee’s boneless wings or whatever the fuck we’re all in such a rush to get back to.
Setting aside the unbelievable coldness with which we’re watching our institutions handle a mass casualty event every single day, the craven worship of profit over greater good, the headlines likening workers’ growing class consciousness awakening to a disease, the fact that the best we could do, three calendar years into a global pandemic was send out four tests per household weeks after you ask for them if you have access to the internet to do so, we also still have to deal with the fact that it is the 87th of January. I say all of this not to drag you down into the depths with me, if you are not already here, but to say loudly and plainly, that if you are not doing okay, that is really understandable. GO HOWL AT THE OCEAN. Or let’s bake some bread.
If I have anything to offer in the way of hope or solace, it’s that winter is actually a very good time to rest. Animals do it, plants do it, even the sun does it, and you should too. If you need to take a nap, or eat a cold, leftover chicken thigh for breakfast, or listen to the same song on repeat, or do a cold plunge into the bay, or bury your face in your dog’s neck, or watch a whole television series over again, or throw something at Daniil – do it. Now is the time. We are all in it together, even those of us who think we are elsewhere.
Listen to This Shit: I Made You a Playlist
“Ha ha ha ha, This Sucks Man” on Apple Music
“Ha ha ha ha, This Sucks Man” on Spotify
I’ve been carelessly eating store-bought naan all this time, when, as it turns out, I have everything I need to treat myself to the real thing. This recipe makes soft, fluffy naan on the stovetop in a cast iron skillet, since you, like me, probably do not have a Tandoor oven at home.
Homemade Naan
adapted from Rasa Malaysia
1 tsp sugar
1/2 cup warm water
1/4 oz. (2 1/4 teaspoons) active dry yeast
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup plain yogurt (I was out, so I used sour cream and it worked!)
1/2 tsp salt
1 Tbsp olive oil
some extra oil, for greasing the skillet
3 Tbsp melted salted butter
cilantro to garnish
In a small bowl, combine the sugar, warm water, and yeast. Stir to combine well. Set it aside until the yeast becomes foamy, about 10 minutes. Transfer the flour to a flat surface and make a well in the middle. Add the yeast mixture, yoghurt, salt and oil, knead the dough until the surface becomes smooth and shiny, about 10 minutes. (This will be an absolute mess at first — stick with it, have a little pile of flour next to you to keep dusting your flat surface.) Cover the dough with a damp cloth and let it rise in a warm place until doubled in size, about 1 hour.
Divide the dough into 8 equal portions. Roll the dough to a rough 8” circle using a *floured* rolling pin. (I did these one at a time before they went into the pan to save space in my little kitchen.)
Heat up a cast-iron skillet over high heat and lightly grease the surface with some oil to avoid the dough from sticking to the skillet. Place the dough on the skillet. When it puffs up and bubbles and burnt spots appear, flip it over and cook the other side. Repeat with the remaining dough, brushing them with melted butter when each one is finished, scattering some chopped cilantro on them as you go. Serve warm, feel rad.
You’re reading “Soup and Despair,” a (sometimes) 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!
Dearest ... This is it exactly. I don't know where to put it, the enveloping desperation and dread. Howl at the ocean for me! I'll howl into the abyss.