warm as yellow

(Oh hey guys. Did you miss me/us? Is anyone left out there? We may, or may not, be bringing this bad boy back.)

The more time I spend alone in the present, the more I center myself in the person I have always been. At ten years old, I was the kind of kid who approached the post-Christmas world as an opportunity for a fresh start, leaning heavily into the idea of making things and planning things in order to get through the frigid and dark days of January. I'd get a fresh planner and a brand new 10-color click pen, and I'd make what was probably an early prototype of a bullet journal with my plans for the day, the week, the month. I'd make a fresh stack out of my library books in the order that I wanted to read them - 10 new ones each Saturday - and I'd vow to write in my journal every day. I'd set time, as well, for the various arts and crafts that I got for Christmas: cross stitches, woven potholders, paint by numbers kits.

As absolutely chaotic as I can be as an adult (while I’m incredibly quick to respond to emails and tasks, do not ever look at the number of unread emails in my inbox), I am still doing all of those things in an attempt to self soothe. I have a brand new planner focused on mapping goals for the year, I have a brand new fancy pen, and I am over here on a long weekend putting together record shelves, re-organizing stacks of books and finding room for them on my shelves, spraying air plants with water and making tiny terrariums, mixing dough to make Parker House rolls. All of these activities are grounding and they're necessary, and they are keeping me from mentally walking into the sea. 

Tomorrow, I will make chicken and dumpling soup and prepare myself for the week. I'll also probably make some candles with a kit a friend sent me for Christmas, because everyone seems ready and willing to appease my need to be ten years old. At the same time, I'm proud of myself, if I'm being honest; these tiny projects are making my hands useful and adding greenery to my home and keeping me fed and keeping me out of bed.

Up north, Rebecca is doing some of the same kind of planning and creative mini-bursts, but to different effect: She is working on her first book to be released by Unbound Edition Press in 2023. It is a food memoir, which is to say that if you have enjoyed anything in this newsletter, you are going to like this book more. Our lives - and our relationship with each other - is as grounded in food as is it in words, and it’s exciting to watch that knowledge push itself through the ground and into the outside world like a harbinger of spring.

(It is especially easy for me to be excited about this news because I’m not the one who has to write a whole fucking book.)

When I met Rebecca, it was the first time I’d walked into someone’s home and they had immediately offered me snacks and a cocktail. It was a simple, easy gesture, but it changed both the way I thought about hospitality and the way that I thought about friendship. Since that day, there have been thousands of shared meals, snacks, and drinks punctuating everything from heartbreaks to hurricanes. If you are lucky, perhaps you will get to read about one or two of them next year. (Or, in my own words: Oh good, this is about me!)

Here are a few recipes for foods that are holding me up this weekend:

• Chicken and Dumpling Stew

• Parker House Rolls

• Roasted Olives with Orange & Rosemary

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!