Miles To Go Before We Chill The Hell Out

As some of you may have noticed, I am very good at being morose. 

Theoretical nihilism is a very comfortable lane for me, and I often joke that the inside of my brain looks like one of those Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbooks. I find creative juju and solidarity in our collective despair, and I am all too happy to reward myself with a glass of bourbon or a pile of potatoes when I require enough dopamine to get through the rest of, really, anything. My heroes are sarcastic and judgmental, and I take great comfort in both the far reaches of irony and emotional vulnerability. I guess, if you prefer the short version: I am a writer.

The last nine months of our lives have been pretty ripe with despair. The results of the 2016 election aspirated an excess of palpable dread into my life, and, to be honest, I was pretty afraid that 2020 was going to break our spirits. There is a terrible weight to waking up every morning and remembering what our current reality is like. For many of us, life will never be the same. This period in American history has been absolutely awful. Reliably so. Last week, I felt a little bit unmoored. What I mean to say is, I really didn’t think we were going to get out of this alive. 

I certainly didn’t think that we were going to win.

It occurred to me on that Saturday afternoon, once we’d heard the news that it wouldn’t be the last election we’d ever have, that I hadn’t felt a single moment of relief since March. It’s been locomotive dread all the way through, baby -- and I figured that we, as a nation, were chugging along to our final destination. Any small victory was weighed down by the impending election, the violence in the streets, and the fear of what else was to come. Now that we’ve reached the station and realized that there is a whole lot more track ahead of us (I swear to god I’m finished beating this metaphor to death), this shocking revelation has been flashing through my head ever since: we’re going to have to re-learn how to process joy.

When was the last time you felt it -- unfettered joy? January? Last year? 2015? Never? 

I hope you’ve never had to break up with an abusive boyfriend. If you have, I can confirm that this feels terribly familiar. There’s the immediate relief, the rush of endorphins. There’s pride: for standing up for yourself, and maybe for doing something your friends have been advising you to do for a long time. There’s the overwhelming emotion, the crying at things that are both hopeful and heartbreaking. (On Sunday, I sobbed watching a video meme of Sister Act 2, where Whoopi Goldberg is Stacey Abrams, and the choir busting into “Oh, Happy Day,” are the provisional and mail-in ballots in Georgia and Pennsylvania. Be certain: I am right here in the emotional mosh pit with you.)

Any time I have had to do this, there has come a point where I started to doubt that my choice and my resolve would last. That somehow they’d trick me back into it, or that it wouldn’t stick. I have often felt afraid that that person might come looking for me to hurt me further, or to find a way to invalidate my agency. Then, something terrible happens, and I begin to doubt my own pleasure. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to experience joy without being somehow punished for it, and the shame I feel about that takes a long while to unpack.

We have been through a lot, and we have miles to go before we chill the hell out.

This process won’t be easy, and it definitely won’t be pretty. In last week’s “Ask Molly” by Heather Havrilesky, she said it perfectly, “It’s okay to take too much, break something, ramble aimlessly, fumble into someone and somewhere. It’s okay to show your truest heart: recently discovered and unearthed, splintering and collapsing, fearful and already forgiven, nervous and needy and bleeding all over.”

We’ve all been in survival mode -- some of us more than others, and some of us for longer than others. My hope is that we picked up some new tools along the way. I hope this experience clarified what’s important to us. I hope it helped teach us to clear out some of the noise. I hope we learned new ways to take care of ourselves and the ones we love. And I hope that we can manage to continue to use those new tools when we have clawed ourselves into significantly less dire circumstances. There is no liberation for some of us without liberation for all of us, and we can’t afford to leave anyone behind.

I want you to feel joy. More importantly, I want you to feel the safety to experience joy. I want you to feel justified in it. And I want you to be capable of facilitating joy for the people around you. We’ve been focused for so long on staying alive. I’m excited to think about what it would be like for us to be good. Not perfect, not solved, not fixed. But good. I would tell you how if I knew, but I suspect we’re all going to have to figure it out together.

Holy fucking shit, we have a lot of work to do before we get there, but it’s important to set intentions. Because mere survival shouldn’t be the ultimate goal. The goal should be joy.

With unfettered joy in mind, I’m going to do something I very rarely do: I’m going to talk to you about dessert. This one is bright, feels insanely luxurious, and making it for the first time was one of the only times during this terrifying spring that I felt anything close to the good stuff. 

‘Three Lemons for the Healing’ Lemon PossetsAdapted from “Midnight Chicken,” by Ella Risbridger

1 cup (plus a splash) heavy cream1 14oz. can condensed milk (the little one)4 lemons

Pour your cream into a big bowl, tip in the condensed milk and whisk them together.

Scrub your lemons in hot water. I mean SCRUB. They have wax on them. It won’t kill you, but you should do your best to get rid of it. 

Zest all four lemons, then cut them in half and juice them. Reserve a teaspoon of the zest for garnish. Add the rest of the zest and all of the juice to the bowl of cream. Whisk until everything is combined -- the posset will literally thicken before your eyes. This is the most fun I have ever had making dessert. It is basically a magic trick. Don’t worry if it still looks a little thin, it will thicken up in the fridge. 

Spoon into six ramekins or china tea cups, or whatever you feel like eating magical lemon pudding out of. Garnish with the reserved lemon zest. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let set in the fridge for at least an hour. Serve your buddies a magic cup of sunshine whenever you’re ready.

Listen to This Shit: I Made You A Playlist“Is This… Joy?” on Apple Music“Is This… Joy?” on Spotify

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!