00 - I like my soup

so hot that it hurts my feelings

hi,

if you are receiving this, you have previously subscribed to “currently quarantined,” a cross-genre collective newsletter that my friends and I (@eel.aloes on IG) launched in the beginning of the pandemic, documenting our quarantines and what not. I’m indulging myself here by beginning a little cooking of my own, sending you a letter which I wish is basically, um, hot soup. saying it a little bit louder. HOT SOUP. 

(here’s an ASMR video of boiling soup you can play in the background.)

I love hot soup. I want my soup very hot. not in terms of spiciness, but the temperature. scalding hot. tongue-whipping hot. the thin skin layer on the roof of my mouth peeling off afterward as I roll it with my tongue hot. I want my soup served in a hot stone bowl right off the stove, cooking the raw egg cracked in at the table and scallion bits on top. that’s how my people like their soup, and I am, most of the time and more often than I’d like, my people. I’ll make eight servings of soup, and for the next few days heat the leftover till its creased top layer is bubbling, spilling over. (apologies, my microwave.)

I also want my soup hot, so-called “smoking hot” hot. “sexy” is the least sexy word in English, but I am content with the word hot as a replacement. heat as an appeal, it only makes sense. the aroma of deglazing the browned scraps at the bottom hot. stock made from scratch hot. canned clam chowder hot. fresh thyme leaves, wilted kimchi, starch from softened potatoes thickening the broth hot. high pitched sizzling, overflowing hot. it’s lit hot. honestly this is too much hot. it’s hurting me hot. when I say there is a fire inside my loins, do I mean it any less literally? the soup is on fire. the smoke is everywhere.

anyway—

from time to time I will send out some comics unfit for the Instagram grid, ceramic updates, chats, songs, reads, recipes, I don’t know hot stuff hot mess soup for the soul yadi yadi yada.

so please don’t keep a look out. hope this letter always catches you off guard, on fire.

I have to go—I just bit into a jalapeno slice hiding inside my banh mi.

a few nights ago I caught Girlpool on their last tour before splitting up. below’s an old live clip of “Soup” from 2015, which they didn’t play at the show. it’s the only soup song I know, though it is not really about soup. the word “soup” only appears once in the beginning: “you walk to the trash can and/ throw out the soup.” that’s it. no more soup. but that is just about enough to start anything, isn’t it? never throw out soup. don’t say never. take care, I’ll write again. —sea