I Love Creamed Spinach More Than I Love Most People

We, as my husband aptly described this afternoon over breakfast, are in the part of the movie we never get to see. The bad guy has been vanquished, the vaccine has been discovered, the curse has been broken, and the credits roll. We never watch the part of the movie where sanitation workers sweep up the mess The Avengers have made of New York City, nor of the vaccine rollout after Dustin Hoffman discovers it, nor of what to do with all the bodies of the zombies that have ceased to hunger for us. 

Here we still are. With more than 500,000 fewer of us than there should be.

I want to level with you all, I watched The Princess and the Frog for the first time last night and wept silent tears basically the entire time. This is partially because (fun fact) I cry at least once during nearly every movie. I am very emotionally susceptible to art, okay? It is also partially because I fall in love with the short-lived goofy sidekick every time (did this bayou-born firefly need to be toothless?), and this one, Ray, was no exception. It is also partially because the main character’s immediate response to emotional and physical pain is to make gumbo. It is also partially because I desperately miss New Orleans, and seeing it animated tugged on my heart-strings almost as much as watching Always for Pleasure. 

I was weeping, but I was feeling a modicum of joy. And, because my brain is sort of like a box in which you’ve accidentally mixed the pieces of three jigsaw puzzles these days, I’d like to share with you a few other things that have also provided a tiny amount of that feeling lately.

• Painting with John. I’m not sure what else to say. Except also Fishing with John. Anachronistic hipster sarcasm juxtaposed against Caribbean paradise, with John Lurie, one of Earth’s most endearing weirdos. This one brings me a lot of joy mostly because of how much joy it’s brought my husband, who absolutely will not stop talking about it. 

• Flynn and I have just gotten our copies of Joan Didion’s latest essay collection Let Me Tell You What I Mean. I’m only just halfway through, trying to read it slowly, to savor what I am continually nervous will be our last book. In some ways, it brings me joy just to know that I still have more Joan to read. Flynn is already finished because she is much better at putting her phone down than I am. Flynn was my introduction to Joan, and both of them have shaped my work and my life in ways that I will try to enumerate for the rest of it.

• “An Oral History of The Emperor’s New Groove” — “IZMA, PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.”

• I ordered an arguably irresponsible number of seeds from High Mowing Organic Seeds and Carmel Bella Farm. Look forward to teeny tiny sprout updates in the coming weeks. 

• It occurred to me while Flynn and I were cracking ourselves the fuck up via text message the other day, that the vast majority of you were not around for our days in New York together, for the dishes of warm olives slid in front of one another, nor for “Conversations with Flynn About Cheese.” 

• Reading that old post led me to Flynn’s old blog, the last post of which was titled with a somewhat awful prescience “Almost No One Makes It Out.” I am sharing this excerpt here with her permission, because as you know, she gets to read everything I write before any of you do.“You can go back in the direction you came from, or you can go forward in the direction you intend to go. Going forward, at least in the long term, necessitates other people. The future can’t really happen without engagement, and the easiest place to start is at dinner. Or at drinks. It starts at the moment when the question is asked, “can you come outside of your head and be a part of this?” Your only job is to never say no, even though the only thing you want to do is refuse over and over.There is, at the end of the day, exactly one cure for loneliness and for pain, and that cure is other people. The only thing you can do is take those weird leaps between “hello” and “I love you” and hope like hell you’re saying all of those things to the right people. And there is only one thing you can do when other people around you are the ones with the problem, and that is to help them out by leaping first. You make them stay for butterscotch pudding. You press the book into their hands. You coax. You go forward in the direction you intended to go.”

Speaking of conversations with Flynn, the other day I said, “If you want the truth, it’s that I love creamed spinach more than I love most people,” and she didn’t balk. That’s how you know a best friend. I said this to her while I made myself creamed spinach for (somehow) the first time, ever. It’s one of the only times in over a year that I can remember bouncing around, happily making myself a treat, feeling smart and capable and sexy and excited. That’s a terrible thing to be able to count on one hand, but a wonderful thing to be able to count, even still. 

Take care while the credits roll, dear friends.

Listen to This Shit: I Made You A Playlist:”Weird Leaps Between Hello And I Love You” on Apple Music”Weird Leaps Between Hello And I Love You” on Spotify

Creamed Spinach

1 lb frozen, chopped spinach1/4 cup heavy cream4 Tbsp unsalted butter1 shallot, minced4 Tbsp all-purpose flour1 cup half and half1/4 cup grated Parmesansalt, pepper and freshly grated nutmeg, to taste

Cook your spinach according to the package directions. I used my microwave. Yes, I am serious. Look — if you have fresh spinach and you want to use it, absolutely do. But there are reasons for frozen spinach to exist, and this is one of them. Let your spinach cool until you won’t burn yourself, and squeeze it dry by the handful. Save some of the leftover spinach juice.

Melt the butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, and cook the shallot until it’s tender and translucent. Add the flour, stir to incorporate, and let it sizzle for half a minute, just to cook the raw flour. Don’t let it brown, we’re not making gumbo today.

Whisking constantly, add the half and half or heavy cream slowly. Once this starts to bubble and thicken up, turn the heat down to low. Add salt, pepper, and nutmeg to taste, then stir in your spinach and Parmesan. Add in some leftover spinach juice, a tablespoon at a time, until you get your desired consistency. I like this to be almost sauce-like, to pile medium-rare steak on top of, and eat with a Manhattan.

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!