Soup to Chase Away the Blues
Ingredients
6 ounces of Shel Silverstein’s Country Bourbon
A snap and a pinch of dandelion fuzz
14–21 miniature marshmallows, minced
A sip of gasoline siphoned from a Chevy Corvair Greenbrier Sportswagon
3 hand-crumbled mistletoe leaves
The sappiness of an imagined romantic affair in the late evening, suffused with the wispy sensation of falling through soft foliage and cigar smoke, ground coarsely while wearing cocktail attire
14 finely chopped porcupine quills
Harvey Weinstein’s left testicle, whole, washed and rinsed thoroughly
A strand of Schiffli lace from a wedding gown
A phone charger that will no longer fit any phone or adapter
The scent of burnt hair from your toes or a wrist
All of the vowels from a can of alphabet soup
A carefully shredded photo of you and an ex, preferably on a porch sitting in lawn chairs during a Tennessee rainstorm
A warm can of Hamm’s
Some dead skin peeled from a traffic cop’s elbow
That dream you had about the movie Husbands, the one you refer to in your head as Their Dead Friend Stuart. The one that goes like this, the way you tell it: Who’s vomiting in the stall? The door’s open. Cassavetes is right there at the sink. “You guys look terrible,” Ben Gazzara with that hideous red-and-black tam on his head comes barging in, “Why do I get the feeling that you want to be alone?” Falk, so despondent on the floor. “First there were four of us and now there’s three of us. And you want to be alone. Wonderful.” And he storms out. “People barging in on you when you’re sick, either you’re going to be quiet or going to go. Silence.” And, “I feel like screaming.” “I want to tell you how I really feel.” All on the floor of a bar bathroom. “There isn’t a need there.” Whispers echoing against the tile. “I never had a bad thought. The good side of everything.” And so Gazzara comes back in with a cigarette clamped in his lips. Sits on a toilet drinking beer from that wonderful little glass. “Let the dead lie.” A proper thought. And who’s vomiting now? “What a terrible smell,” as someone pounds on the door. “Hand me the paper.” “You got some on your foot there, right there.” “Come over here.” “Oh, you stink. That silly son of a bitch is on the door.” “A private moment about Stuart.” “You can’t even vomit. And you’ve got no sense of humor.” “Nobody calls me a phony.” So much bustling about. “Shake hands.” “You want a dime, I’ll give you a dime.” “How’s that for a two-day venture? What’s my number? I forgot my number.” “Give me a beer.” And then someone’s beating up a payphone. “Archie, look what I did to the phone booth. I like you guys better. I am a jerk. Let’s go home and get it over with. I love you. I’ll kill you. I love you.”
2 shot glasses of Sycamore sap
A small portion of the stuffing from a pillow that you don’t use anymore but can’t bring yourself to throw away because it still smells like the hair of someone you used to love
Roman Polansky’s nose, cut to digestible pieces
4 potatoes grown under a cement garden, unwashed, mashed by fist
A package of frozen yellow corn that has been kept in the freezer for at least 5 years, hidden beneath various TV Dinners and other microwavable delights
A burlap sack of guilt (the sack being one that was used at a dad-and-lad sack race in which the contestants came in third, afterwards the dad berating the lad for being a stupid slow sack of shit, and that 3rd-place finishes meant you lost and therefore were and would always be a loser, according to the dad)
1/2 cup of Shut The Fuck Up
Your favorite line from a Raymond Chandler novel, enunciated gruffly without any pretense, but just a flick of garlic salt over the shoulder
Any old phone numbers or addresses that you don’t want to remember anymore (may substitute with a song you can’t get out of your head, if applicable)
2/3 cup of wild wallflower petals seasoned equally with desolation and togetherness
The crushed roots of a broken promise blended on pulse to a bitter pulp
The liquid wrung from 7 moist towelettes
The mesh lining from a maroon trucker hat of which the front reads, “It used to be wine, women, and song…Now it’s beer, the old lady, & TV!”
All of your worst judgment and best times clinked together in old mayonnaise jars and then poured over your regret
An old cowboy’s scarf, caked with sweat and dried snot
Directions
Combine ingredients in a tin pan, the rustier the better, over low heat, making sure to fold in a jigger of curiosity and a sprinkle of detachment, while keeping an eye on the temperature. Do not to let the mixture boil. Cook for 17 minutes, stirring in some kettle corn occasionally with a wrench. During this process make sure to sing your own words to the tune of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, such as, “Make us a split, you’re the banana man. Make us a sundae too. Because we’re all in the mood for a la mode, and you’ve got the ice cream tonight.” As the soup simmers you should remove your shoes, slowly sliding across the floor (preferably Egyptian tile or hardwood) in your socks, back and forth steadily as if preparing for an Olympic event called Sock Gliding. After 5–6 minutes of this (gliding times may very depending on type of socks used) proceed to shout at the soup, “Who do you think you are, sir? Just who the fuck do you think you are? And what, I dare say, are you doing in my kitchen? Get lost! Out! Out!” and then whisper to it, “No. No. I didn’t mean it. Please stay,” and then start singing The Four Seasons to it: “Your daddy don’t mind. And your mommy don’t mind. Why don’t you stay, just a little bit longer?” Make sure to hit the high notes with a brave falsetto. As soon as the song is done, put a lid on the pot. For the next 2–25 minutes let it mull in there. During this time you can either raise your right hand and repeat an oath such as, “I will provide health insurance for my phone, even though none is provided for myself. I will go to great lengths to make selfish statements sound as if they are magnanimous and dupe others into thinking that my basest instincts are charitable. Nobody will truly know what it is that am, and that will become what I am. I wish someone would call me up just to talk. Alaric! Sack away!” or you can paint Guy De Maupassant’s mustache over a roadmap of Alabama. To know when the soup is done, merely add a package of Pop Rocks to the mixture and put the lid back on. If you hear the sound of tiny explosions then your soup is ready to be enjoyed. Serve immediately with a side of the I Ching and a Leonard Cohen album, preferably an early one. Add butter and salt if desired.
