Why Are You Like This?

The reason Flynn and I titled this newsletter Soup & Despair is no surprise. I make soup reactively. I make soup preemptively. I make soup prophylactically. I make soup to help me think. I make soup to distract myself from my thoughts. If there’s something to celebrate or someone to mourn, if we’re lost or we’ve found our way, to comfort or to say thank you — it’s always soup. 

To drive this point home, today I made potato leek soup for no one. Not no one, exactly. Sean and I will both eat it in the coming days while we work on the things we have to finish before we reopen Pop+Dutch for the season: me, a first draft of my book, and him, an odd-dozen batch of singularly weird paintings for his solo show at Spiritus in May. But I didn’t make this soup because I wanted to eat it right away, I made it because I needed something to do with my hands while my brain spun around in my head like a whirlybird. I made it because I was worried when Flynn got exposed to Covid last week (she is fine, please do not talk to her about it, or she will yell at me for writing it down). I made it because I can’t get ahold of another friend who disappears when he has to make life decisions. I made it because another friend is having major surgery this week. I made it because I miss people I’m not sure I’ll ever see again. (To wit: Sean just came home and asked if I made that soup to eat for dinner, I said I didn’t and he said, “Why’d you make it? Oh, just to make soup?”)

I feel compelled often to apologize for being like this — not for the soup, you all love that beneficial side effect of the times my brain somersaults, but for the way it manifests in other behaviors. 

I’m sorry for always being so nervous about what comes next. I’m sorry for texting you too many times when I’m worried about you. I’m sorry for always being the one at the table who reminds everyone there’s a new variant coming because we’re not doing anything to keep them from proliferating. I’m sorry I can’t stop talking about how disappointed I am in our government. I’m sorry for listening to the new Big Thief record over and over again. I’m sorry for always taking the bait when someone brings up Ted Cruz. I’m sorry for always making a joke when I know I’ve just said something way too dark. I’m sorry for always saying we should get a drink, and then not doing it for months. I’m sorry for taking grief really, really seriously, and talking about it so much that it feels like you’re staring directly into the sun. I’m sorry that I know how to help people across the world much less effectively than those I can literally feed. I’m sorry that I forgot about the conversation we had after a few cocktails. I’m sorry that I hate Facetiming. I’m sorry for how much I’ve been staring into the abyss lately. I’m sorry that I don’t know where we go from here. 

I had a conversation about writing with a professor friend this week, who said that when he’s working on something, he has to walk. He often finds himself stopping in exactly the same doorways with a notebook to record his thoughts. He recommended that I figure out what my version of walking is, and try to do that when I’m searching for inspiration about what comes next. I admitted that for me, those kinds of intrusive but productive thoughts that need to be put down on paper right away usually come while I’m cooking. I’ve started keeping my laptop open on the table behind me while I clean the leeks, while I sweat the onions, while I peel the potatoes. 

I’m leaving you with an excerpt from Heather Havrilesky's Ask Molly newsletter from this week. If you’re not familiar with her, you should know that she’s brilliant, pretty dark, and recently released a book called Foreverland: On the Divine Tedium of Marriage that everyone in the world has been yelling at her about (I haven’t read it yet, but Flynn has, and her review was basically that “most people shouldn’t be married,” which is a view she’s held long since before reading this book). Havrilesky’s been unpacking a lot of received vitriol for the last few weeks, and I can tell it’s getting to her. But sometimes when we feel really awful and really tired our brains whirlybird themselves into something that makes someone else feel better understood. So, here that is:

This is the only kind of person I will ever be, so thanks for hanging around. At least you know there will be soup.

Potato Leek Soup

One of the things I hate the most in the world is getting a bite of food with grit in it. Sometimes, it ruins my appetite entirely. It is, perhaps, ironic that potato leek soup is one of my favorites, because there are so many opportunities for grit to hide within it. All you have to do is scrub your potatoes with sincerity, slice your leeks and rinse them to absolute hell in a colander, and to not forget to clean off the cutting board and the knife you used before you put anything else on it. Rinse carefully, my darlings.

2 Tbsp. unsalted butter1 small onion, diced2 leeks, sliced and cleaned thoroughly2 large Russet potatoes, scrubbed sincerely and diced (peeled or not is up to you)1 Tbsp. flour (optional)a splash of white wine or dry vermouth1 ½ quarts chicken stocka few sprigs of thyme1 bay leaf1/4 c. half and half salt and pepper to taste

1. Melt the butter over medium heat in whatever pot you like to make soup in, and sweat the onions with a pinch of salt. Once they’ve softened up and gone translucent, add the leeks. Let them cook for 5-8 minutes, stirring frequently, until they start to wilt down. Tie your thyme sprigs and bay leaf together with a little kitchen string.

2. Add the diced potatoes and give everything a stir to combine. If using the flour (I like this soup to be a little extra thick, leave it out if you don’t) add it now, and cook for a minute or two, but don’t let it turn brown. Deglaze with the wine or vermouth, scraping up any bits from the bottom of the pot. After another minute, add the chicken stock, the herb bouquet, a pinch of salt, and a few grinds of black pepper. Bring to a boil, then knock it down to a simmer for 20 minutes.

3. Taste the broth for seasoning, and check a few potatoes to make sure they’re soft. Once they are, take the soup off the heat, remove the herb bundle, and stir in the half and half. I like to let this soup hang out overnight in the fridge, but you can serve it right away too. Reheat it gently, being careful not to let it boil for more than a minute, so that the dairy doesn’t get scorched. (Serves 2, plus leftovers)

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!