Of all the cucumbers in all the world, I am one of the least cool. My nervousness knows no bounds under even the most normal circumstances. I can sweat through a shirt at the slightest compliment or challenge, say exactly the right thing and then beat myself up for not saying it better, or exhaust myself planning out every possible way to relax on a day off. So when my girlfriend, Katy—an immunosuppressed person and true delight of a human being—began to show symptoms of COVID-19 several weeks ago, the first thing I did was panic-buy a bidet.
We had plenty of toilet paper at the time, but given the choice to wait to see what would happen next or anxiously purchase an item I will definitely never install in my toilet, I chose the latter. The bidet attachment is still in its box, being used as a doorstop, and will eventually be returned for hopefully every last cent since my live stand-up comedy income has presently dried up.
Katy already has about 97 doctors who work together as a team to balance the slew of medications she takes daily to manage her chronic illness, an autoimmune disease she’s been battling for years. Conversely, as she recently pointed out, I have zero doctors I see regularly. (Well, that’s not totally true; I have this beloved hippie chiropractor who fixes my frequently-out-of-whack right shoulder while telling me about his dance career. Besides him, no one.) So in some ways, it was good Katy was the one to get sick. She had all these doctors to call, who, after a cough, fever, and exhaustion turned into extreme shortness of breath and chest pains, suggested we go to Urgent Care.
Urgent Care sent Katy to the ER in an ambulance. She’s been in and out of the ER again since—also on doctor’s orders—and never throughout the three or so weeks she’s been sick have I had a true, lasting feeling of calm.
So what do I do? I make soup.
Besides keeping our apartment bleached and sanitary and for some reason deciding to sleep with a hatchet (it’s making me feel better), soup is all I can do. Katy’s home now resting, and sleeps for most of the day. Her breathing has massively improved. I spend my days overwatering all our plants, attempting to work while heavily distracted, and listening to news podcasts. Relief comes from calls with friends, Zoom meetings with family, and soup.
This soup is the only thing Katy wants to eat. It’s a recipe I improvised using flavors she grew up with, some absentminded taste-testing, and a whole lot of love. To make it, I use things like: sea salt, black pepper, enough crushed red pepper flakes that it could be considered a controlled substance, vegetable stock (pre-made and purchased at the dang store), sesame seeds, and sesame oil. Depending on our refrigerator at the time, I also include fresh celery, shallots and Swiss chard, frozen green peas, rice noodles, one egg, a sense of humor, and a low-hum feeling of dread. And I use pre-minced garlic for god’s sake. Don’t need to be mincing my own garlic at a time like this.
Substitutions: Mushrooms instead of celery, corn instead of peas, rice instead of rice noodles. Honestly, at one point I even tried beets. FYI that made the soup pink. Whatever veggies are available, I make sure to thinly chop them until I substantially cut my finger and after that, switch to tearing them apart with my bare, Band-Aid-wrapped hands.
Making soup is really all I should be trusted to do. For instance, I shouldn’t be trusted to walk, because I tried to go for a walk around the block while masked and gloved-up and became so focused on a cop car across the street—so sure they would ticket me for some unintended slight—that I forgot to look directly in front of me and fell into a large, very visible hole, badly spraining my ankle in the process.
Instant Pot Cilantro Lime Rice
My Anxiety Symptoms Were Ruining My Life
