They Say It's Spring

“When I was young I lived in a world of dreamsOf moods and myths and illusionary schemesThough now I'm much more grown upI fear that I must own upTo the fact that I'm in doubt ofWhat the modern cynics shout of

They say it's springThis feeling light as a featherThey say this thingThis magic we share togetherCame with the weather too” — Blossom Dearie, “They Say It’s Spring”

Last spring was so terrifying. I do not miss it. However, I do so miss the sense that we were all in it together. We were going grocery shopping for immunocompromised friends, we were checking on each other, we were finding new ways to communicate, we were dropping off loaves of bread at each others’ doorsteps — it was too intense and too genuine to last forever. 

This spring, we are not in it together. It is every bro for themselves. You get your vaccine wherever you can get it, however you can get it. You make sure your parents have it, by any means necessary. You congratulate your friends for getting it. For finding theirs. You watch people walk mask-less down the street and wonder if they are doing that because they think they are safer, or because they are assholes. You watch your friends go on vacation — “We’re  vaccinated,” they assure everyone. 

We are most certainly not in this together. 

One person in my pod is already fully-vaccinated, after a very specific set of circumstances aligned, allowing her to drive four hours each way twice in February, way ahead of the expected schedule for our age group. She’s spent the entire time since feeling some combination of gratitude and guilt, never sure who she should reveal it to, who will take it the wrong way, vowing to make us all soup when it’s our turn to get the only 24-hour ailment we’ve ever really wanted.

Some days it feels like you’ll have to wait forever to get yours, which makes state governments’ gleeful announcements of the next phase of reopening feel even more alienating. And then the announcement comes: you will be eligible next month, next week, today. You feel an immediate rush of relief. An immediate rush of anxiety about how to get an appointment. A very unfamiliar sense of calm — a sense that things are eventually going to be okay. Not “okay” in the sense that you repeat to yourself while you hyperventilate, “okay” in the sense you can believe even when your immediate continued existence does not depend on it. And then you have to decide what to do with this new superpower. Text your family and your friends, obviously. Post a vaccine selfie on the internet? I don’t know. Buy a “Hug Me I’m Vaccinated” t-shirt? No bro, please. Please do not do that. 

“Compersion” is a word I’ve been thinking of a lot lately. Unless you spend a lot of time being in or hanging around with people who are in non-monogamous relationships, it might not mean much to you. Some people think of it as the opposite of jealousy: I don’t entirely agree with this, but that could be a whole letter of its own. Compersion is essentially the experience of empathetic joy that someone you love is getting something good. That could be a relationship, it could be an experience, it could be that they ordered really well at dinner. The idea is that you find happiness in their happiness, and ideally, they in yours when the time comes. It takes time to find this feeling, because it’s not something we’re naturally taught, and I’m trying my everloving hardest to feel some vaccine compersion these days. It doesn’t eradicate envy — nothing, and I mean nothing can do that — but it does help to soften its edges. 

At this point in the pandemic, most of the older, immunocompromised, or otherwise more vulnerable folks in my life have gotten their shots, and the gratitude I feel for that is hard to express. That knowledge makes it finally feel like spring, even though I do still sense some nihilism around the edges of the crocuses.

Listen to This Shit: I Made You a Playlist”Nihilism Among The Crocuses” on Apple Music”Nihilism Among The Crocuses” on Spotify

I know that traditionally, our celebration of spring involves peas, asparagus, chilled soups, and rosé. But we all know that spring in New England is a total scam, and we don’t have access to any of those things yet. We also know, based on years of getting burnt by nature’s cruelest joke, that we could have one more blizzard at any moment.

In that spirit, let’s talk about something I’ve been making all winter — Thai salad dressing. These are flavors that freak people out when they read about them, and then blow their effing minds when they taste them. Do not be put off by the inclusion of fish sauce. If the way it’s made freaks you out, I recommend that you get over it, or at the very least, just don’t think about it. This dressing is a ray of goddamned sunshine the likes of which your tastebuds have likely not experienced lately (especially if you, like me, live many, many miles away from the nearest good Thai food).

I like this dressing best on a simple iceberg salad — yeah, I said it. It’s cold, crunchy, holds up to the acid, is a perfect bed for fried tofu or chicken, and a great foil to heavier dishes. It’s spicy, it’s bright, it’s a break from your favorite vinaigrette. It’ll give you hope and make you salivate, and these days, that’s just about enough for me.

Thai Restaurant Dressing2 limes, juiced3 Tbsp fish sauce (I like Three Crabs)3 Tbsp sugar2 tsp soy sauce1/2 tsp red chile flakes1/2 inch piece of lemongrass, mincedsplash rice vinegarsplash sesame oil

Mix everyone in a mason jar, seal well and shake like hell. Once the sugar has dissolved, you’re done! Eat! Feel endorphins! I love you!

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!