Just Brian Being Brian

It’s hard to know how to protect people right now.

One of the dumbest things I ever heard someone say out loud was about the tide. It was summertime, and I was taking a lunch break on the beach deck behind my sandwich shop. This is always a dangerous proposition — on the one hand, you get to feel the sun, look at the water, smell the beach roses, which is a rare treat for those of us who work on the schedule of the tourist economy; on the other hand, it means that people can talk to you. 

In this case I was lucky, this person was talking to his friends and not directly to me, so I only had to overhear the one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard, I didn’t have to interact with it. There were three of them — tan, toned, middle-aged men, with the gentlest sag to their arm skin, betraying the youth they’d paid to have reapplied to their faces. They were lined up in Adirondack chairs on the furthest edge of the deck, closest to the bayside beach, drinking cartoonishly large glasses of white wine. This is a pretty familiar scene with very familiar players. It gets to the point during the height of the summer where I know how someone will order based on what kind of tank top they’re wearing. You grow to love and despise them. Sometimes they surprise you, for better or worse. 

I was not eavesdropping, but it was impossible to ignore, both because of the content and the volume.

“Wait, I have a question,” the one in the middle began, putting his arms out to either side, to silence all further discussion. “Last time we were out here, it was super full, and now it’s almost empty.”

“What?” To be fair, the one on the left was right. What? There’s not a much better invitation to what came next.

“The water,” he explained, “there was so much of it before.”

“It’s… just… the tide,” the one on the right offered cautiously, like when a child mentions their imaginary friend and you have to figure out whether they are actually seeing a ghost. “The tide went out.”

“But where does it go? Does it, like, drain?”

They laughed a laugh that smacked of “Just Brian being Brian!” I didn’t hear what happened next, because it becomes very difficult to hear when your brain is leaking out of your ears. 

What would you do if your friend said something like this to you? In that moment, I wanted to pour his glass of wine over his head, to scream at him for wasting his short time on this planet being so moronic, to ask how he made it this far, to demand to know how his friends put up with this, why they would travel with someone like this, if they could stand it. 

Right now, I think I’d want to protect him.

Neil Degrasse Tyson says that the tide doesn’t come “in and out.” He says that there is a bulge of water surrounding our planet, protruding out further on either side because of gravity and orbital force, and we spin within it. We come to the tide. We leave it. It waits there for us. We catch up to it. It’s too much to think about for too long. It makes my head want to explode, but I suspect Brian would think, “oh okay sure,” and refill his wine glass.

It’s hard to know how to protect people right now. 

There have been days this year that have felt like whole three-act plays. There have been days this week that have been really fucking raw, both indoors and outdoors. For you too, I bet. 

Each time I sit down to write a letter, I end up circling back to soothing us somehow. The last few weeks, it’s become apparent that we’re going to have to start thinking about the future again, in a way that I know I haven’t permitted myself to for almost a year. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to require some time to adjust. It’s going to require that we protect each other. It’s going to require compassion — like, more compassion than you’ve ever exercised. It’s a lot to ask of yourself, to ask of each other. But we have to try. It’s foolish to apply this sentiment to everyone, of course, especially in a world where Ted Cruz still exists, but you should try to assume that the people around you are really trying their best, and give them some extra room to fuck up, to fumble, to ask a really stupid question. 

It’s also important to remember to protect yourself. Especially from yourself. You know what your worst impulses are — you’ve spent the whole year practicing. I’m not suggesting that you suck it up, buttercup, but I am suggesting that you start to do some things that might help you readjust to life around other people (don’t worry, you still have months to practice). 

One of my worst impulses is to spend hours pouring political information into my eyes without a break. One of the things I’ve done to protect myself from myself is to subscribe to some newsletters by people who are already doing some of that work for me: Dan Sinker’s Impeachment Update Machine, Alexis Coe’s Study Marry Kill, and Lyz Lenz’s Men Yell At Me. These folks have helped me to slightly relax my grip on catching everything.

You also need to eat a vegetable. That’s just a fact. I’m here to help with that.

Whatever you did this week, I hope you got to cyberbully Ted Cruz a little bit.

Listen to This Shit: I Didn’t Make a Playlist, But I Have a Recommendation
”It’ll All Be Over,” by The Supreme Jubilees on Apple Music
”It’ll All Be Over,” by The Supreme Jubilees on Spotify

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Orzo With Spinach and Feta
adapted from Melissa Clark’s recipe in the New York Times

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 large scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced (or 1 yellow onion, diced)
2 large garlic cloves, minced
8 oz. baby spinach leaves, roughly chopped
1 tsp. kosher salt
1 ¾ cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 cup orzo
zest of 1 lemon
¾ cup crumbled feta, plus more for garnish
½ cup frozen peas, thawed (optional, but you know that already)
1 cup chopped fresh dill (or parsley or cilantro)

Heat a 10-inch skillet or Dutch oven over medium heat. Melt butter, and stir in about three-quarters of the scallions (or all of the yellow onion), 1/2 tsp. salt, and cook until softened, stirring frequently. Add the garlic and cook until just fragrant, about a minute and a half.

Stir in stock and bring to a simmer. Stir in orzo, lemon zest and 1/2 tsp. salt. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat until orzo is nearly cooked through and most of the liquid is absorbed, about 10 minutes, stirring once or twice. If it starts to stick, don’t panic — just scrape it up and add a bit more stock or water as needed.

Stir in spinach, adding in batches if it doesn’t all fit in the pan at once. Cover, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until spinach is wilted, about 5 minutes.

Stir in cheese, peas (if you like) and dill, cover the pan, and cook for another minute or two, to finish cooking and warm the peas. Taste for seasoning, and add salt and black pepper, if you like. To serve, sprinkle with more cheese and the reserved scallions. I like a squeeze of lemon juice and a glug of olive oil over the top.

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You’re reading “Soup and Despair,” a 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!