A Soup is a Spell

I can't personally think of any natural weather event as well-timed as this week's bomb cyclone on the East Coast, which conveniently hit on Friday long after I was home from work and continued into a Saturday when I, personally, didn't have anywhere to go or anyone to see. The snow was also light and fluffy; while accumulating heavy amounts and accompanied by strong winds, it wasn't wet enough to signify downed power lines and other hassles. (**The same cannot be said for other places; I texted Rebecca at 7am yesterday morning and she had already lost power.)

For all of the above, I count my blessings, because a guilt-free snow day is probably my favorite kind of day. I woke up around 5:30 or 6am to peek out the window. On snow days, being up early feels like a quiet gift rather than an affront; by 7 I was sitting on my couch with a cup of coffee just watching the flakes fall and listening to Kurt Vile. By 11, it felt like late afternoon, and I began the process that every snow day entails for me: making stew.

Over the past couple of years, I have become just a slightly woo-woo person in the sense that I buy crystals and I think about the vibes that I'm putting into the world. What that means is that of course I have a book about creating a cozy home through witchcraft, and that book recently pointed out to me (stay with me here, I promise) that creating a place of comfort — and hence, magic — has to do with engaging the senses. Smell and taste are at the top of that list, and the book pointed out to me that the act of cooking is meditative in a way that is equally as nourishing as the meal if you let it. Simply put: Making soup is a magical spell, and we shouldn't treat it as any less. 

And so I spent my Saturday afternoon cooking a big pot of pozole and reveling in the smell of its spice and the contrast it provided to the never-ending snowfall outside. I prepare for snow days not because I worry about being truly snowed in, but because I want to be as cozy and indulgent as I am able to in these moments. I needed to make sure I had snacks: two kinds of crackers, three kinds of cheese, including the best aged goat cheese from a cave around the corner from my house (Brooklyn, baby!), bright and fresh lemon beet hummus, rainbow carrots, Castelvetrano and Kalamata olives. I poured myself a cocktail at 12PM, too, because as one of my colleagues pointed out: "Nothing makes me want to day drink more than a snowstorm."

Provided that one is sheltered from catastrophe, a snowstorm is soothing for myriad reasons, but chief among them is the idea that the weather has forced you to slow down and stay inside. The weather, you see, versus a pandemic, versus other people, versus the actual world. In that sense, a snowstorm feels much more like a thing you choose and a way to be self indulgent than anything else in the last 2+ years has. What a gift to be inside, to slow down, to cook up a spell on purpose.

Here is the pozole recipe I used.

And here is a weird playlist to get you through the week.

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!