I returned to a place I used to hike several times a week for the first time in four years. All four seasons you could find me there, oftentimes with Moonie on my back but there were days I went by myself and never to just be. Never to be with the land and trees and dirt and rocks— I went in search of thinness, I went in grief when my mother died, and I went to escape my then-husband. But this time for the first time I went to witness. To smell the earth— wet leaves that had been sweetened by the sun and the desert sage that grows abundantly. I traded headphones for the sound of my breath growing heavier or my heartbeat in between my ears. I let my mind wander.
I’m thinking about what my mother used to tell me, that “someday you won’t care about any of that”, and she was right. I’d stop caring about my hair lying down flat and neat. The way my arms look in a dress or a tank top. I’d stop thinking about my back rolls— I don’t like the way my back looks when it appears as though I’m trying to conceal something. How it presses the soft folds into a mound that rests above my high-waist jeans. It’s why I opt for string bikini tops so you know I’m not interested in hiding. I’m thinking about being witnessed.
I’m thinking about cycle-breakers and healers of ancestral grief and trauma. How my mother began the slow chip chip chipping so that I could upend. I’m thinking about how I come from old money, blood money, on both sides and what it meant. What really happened to lose it all but would you fault me for saying I’m glad it was lost? I don’t want that. We always did have champagne taste long before we had ever tasted it.
I’m thinking about what a fuckery learning proper sourdough is. How it requires a level of experimentation I struggle to appreciate. More wasted flour? I think I’ll take a lap.1
I’m thinking about good men and how I don’t know them. One and hopefully a second, goddess willing, if I get this parenting thing right. Admittedly I’ve come to live in a bit of an echo-chamber; not only do I not know good men, I don’t really know men anymore. I met a man, a parent to kids that go to school with mine, and I think he’s a good man from what I can tell but that doesn’t mean I know. I have a lot of masc people in my life, not to be confused with men, that I feel safe with. I who have never known good men. I was thinking about a video I saw of different people, adult people, pranking their fathers. Babe, do you ever think about what it would be like if we could prank our dads? Or what it would be like to call them to help us with fixing, I don’t know, sealing the tub? Or what it would be like to have them over for Sunday dinner?
He tells me no, he doesn’t. I don’t know if I believe him— I think he’s protecting himself the same way I do because I don’t think about that either. Not for long, anyways.
There are men, writers mostly, that I don’t know but know their writing and those men, I tell myself, are most likely good men but that doesn’t mean I know that. Do their kids know? Their friends? Their lovers? Are my clients good men and not just good to me because I fulfill a need for them? Are they tender with hearts and good listeners? Do they let you tell them when they hurt your feelings without punishing you for it? Surely…
surely surely surely
I’m thinking about how baseless and violent it is to use Black and brown and trans bodies as a scapegoat for the tragedy du jour. I’m thinking about how seasoned we are at forgetting— the hurricanes that turn into the next floods that turns into another wild fire, that turns into another Black man being lynched in the year of our lord 2025. I’m thinking about how dead babies get traded for assassinations gets traded for climate change and at the end of the road folks stand in line for the new iPhone. I’m thinking about how the most revolutionary thing I will do is raise children that know the horrors from jump and can still hold the world in the softness of their hands— what a privilege, and also the responsibility it requires. I’m thinking all the time, I am knowing, that this is what I was meant to do. I’m forever thinking about legacies.
I’m thinking about how I won’t let capitalism trick my babies into thinking they are machines even when my own tired and tricked mind tries to tell me I need to.
I’m thinking about how Moonie, the child that has never expressed any interest in sports, has pushed away the very suggestion, is playing flag-football for the next six weeks on a co-ed team. She is one of three girls and the only one in fourth grade and what I’m thinking about is hell yeah, baby. I’m thinking about what it means to raise a white, cis boy that will someday be a man and when he still sometimes uses his hands instead of his words, even at five, I recoil in shame and sadness. Surely?
surely surely surely
I’m thinking about what American English sounds like, and so far only Anaya has understood what I mean by this. Do you? I can imagine, hear, the way Thai sounds, Portuguese sounds, Italian sounds, French sounds, but I can’t hear American English. I’m thinking about how it must feel to kiss my own lips. I’m thinking about what I’ll make for dinner the nights the kids are home. I’m thinking about the award Anaya will receive in November— the trans community leader given by NEWSED and what it means to be in his orbit and so closely at that. I’m thinking about how grateful I am to know even just one good man. I’m thinking about making a clean-out-the-fridge soup for dinner tonight. Anaya has been at a work conference in Minneapolis since Sunday and I want there to be a hot meal, even if it’s soup (he doesn’t like soup, don’t get me started) waiting for him.
Yeah, I’m thinking I’ll make soup and sit with The Lovers card I pulled this morning. I’m thinking about taking a bath after I’ve finished my work and my chores.
Here’s what I did and some thoughts on soup-
If you’re ever feeling unsteady in the kitchen or want to flex your creativity just because, soup is the place to start. You can make it real brothy or scale the liquid back and make a stew. You can start off with a stew and then add more liquid the next day to stretch it. You can cook pasta or rice separately (my general recommendation) so that you can switch up your leftover game or maybe serve it with neither but add some garlicky breadcrumbs when serving or make some giant croutons and toast some cheese on top of it. Maybe you’ll toss in potatoes and then some cheesy croutons! Soup is for creatives— that’s a hill I’ll die on.
I started off with frying six slices of bacon that I had chopped, leaving half of the renderings in the pan, setting the bacon on a paper towel to drain and pouring out the rest of the fat. Don’t mess with bacon and/or you’re vegan/vegetarian? Skip it and sweat down some fat boi mushrooms you’ve sliced. We’re building flavors and depth! There’s no right way!
Then I added-
2 carrots, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
2 shallots, diced
to the pan with a sprinkle of salt and let it sweat out and sauté for 10 minutes before adding a couple generous squeezes of tomato paste, letting it cook for two minutes.
I tossed in a jar of cherry tomatoes I had roasted with some olive oil and saved for a rainy day, let some of the moisture cook out, and then added (4-6 cloves, depending on size and taste preference) minced garlic, sautéing a minute or two, just until it becomes fragrant. Then I deglazed the pot with some white wine I found languishing in the fridge along with a couple sprigs of thyme and oregano from the garden but really most any herb will do and if you don’t want to mess with or don’t have wine, don’t mess with it!
As always, season as you go. The trick to depth is layering flavors and seasonings and that means you don’t just salt and pepper once and call it good. Taste as you go.
I let that cook down for a few minutes and then I added in a couple cans of white beans I had rinsed and drained and then added a quart and a half of chicken stock (veg is great, too!), tossed in a parmesan rind, brought that to a hearty simmer before knocking the heat down to low, covered it, and let it do it’s thing.
Want to eat in 20 minutes? Eat!
Want to let it simmer on the stove for a few hours? Do it!
After mine simmered for about an hour, I tossed in a bunch of lacinato kale that I chopped, a couple tablespoons of capers, a drizzle of soy sauce (stay with me here— soy sauce is brilliant in tomato-based dishes to add depth and you don’t need much) and popped the lid on for another ten and then I added a cup of orzo right into the pot, something I only do with orzo, otherwise I cook my starch separately and add it to the bowls before ladling the soup on top because generally I don’t want a giant, soggy mess but you can do with your soup what you will.
Taste taste taste! If it tastes flat or just tomato you can add a bit of miso you thinned out in some hot water, or some umami dust like this one, or another drizzle of soy!
Before you go nuts with salt, consider if it needs more acid first— red wine vinegar is also really nice in tomato-based dishes.
I finished mine with a hearty palmful of grated parm and that’s that.
I’m thinking about how I never really gave my mother enough credit for her ability to cook with what we had— I had healing to do around that and I apologize.
I’m thinking about my propensity to unintentionally hurt myself over and over and over as I examine the blister that has ruptured and crusted over on the back of my hand from pulling a loaf of sourdough from the oven, the horizontal cut from a stainless steel pot lid on my middle finger, and the burn on my palm from pulling a cast-iron bubbling with focaccia using a too-damp dish towel.
I’m thinking of my knee hurting on my hike today but that I was able to go ass-to-grass repeatedly for a client and be pain free. I’m thinking all the time about how I’m tired of capitalism I am. I’m thinking that maybe I could get you in joining me in a reframe—
I pay subscription fees to writers (and Substack) not always because I am getting something— a recipe, a craft-piece, an op-ed, a a a, an an an. I pay subscription fees because I value the person outside of their work. Mostly I like the idea that I give back what I receive. That even in small ways I contribute to their being able to buy tires or take their family on vacation or buy themselves a coffee. I’m thinking what things could look like when we did a little less “what’s in it for me?”
I’m thinking about this sentence(s)-
“All forms of systemic harm makes people feel like their full humanity isn’t that good. Once you’ve internalized that belief, you’re operating at 20% capacity all the time. You can’t advocate for things, or build things— your sense of self has been deteriorated. The opposite of that is the re-gathering of self.”
- Carvell Wallace
I’m thinking about the changing of seasons and what that means externally and spiritually. I’m thinking about that Carvell Wallace quote all the time and how I’d like to revisit this very thing. I’m thinking about healing and to heal.
I’m thinking that I love you.
AR
Currently Reading: I just finished Bitterroot Landing and what a weird and lyrical delight
Currently Listening To: the wind chime through the open door
Currently Watching: horrible/nostalgic 90’s autumnal films a la Autumn in New York
Currently Cooking: see above xx
that lap lasted for a total of 24 hours
Whew. Thanks for letting us in with this thinking (feeling).🙏🏻
Soup is for creatives! I’ve always felt like if I am to one day be reincarnated that I’d like to come back as a fun soup 🥣 ❤️