War, Lent and Strong Stock
I know nothing of war.
I know what I’ve read in books. Seen on film. Heard from others who have had first-hand accounts. I know that according to the World Population Review, there are too many ongoing wars in 2022 for me to count before the lines begin to blur and I start to wonder why I don’t see Ethiopia on the news at 6 pm every night.
I know nothing of war except that war breaks all those who are in them. And we are, by default of our shared humanity, all in them right this very moment.
The weight of that felt too heavy this week- and then there was the shame of the heaviness felt while I sat snuggled on my couch with a mug of steaming tea; my children safe and warm in their beds while reels of premature babies in Ukraine separated from their mothers, on cots and machines under the care of dedicated nurses flashed over and over on my Instagram feed.
Ash Wednesday is coming and to paraphrase Kate Bowler, it almost feels like a relief to welcome the darkest days of the church calendar. As though it has given us permission to let all the things go. Proclaim we’re just not up to snuff these days. It’s a pat on the hand; a quiet reassurance. “It’s ok that you’re a hot mess right now,” hall pass.
The last few years I’ve allowed the Lenten season to go by while I demurely gave it the finger from the sidewalk. Watch this. I’m going to eat this WHOLE candy bar. And burgers on Fridays; medium RARE. And watch all the screens AT ONCE. I will abstain from nothing. This year I can’t shut everything off/turn everything down/close every fridge door/pour out every wine bottle fast enough. I have had enough of enough. The access, the prying eyes, the running tickers, the adrenaline. I need the temporary season of without like a gasping swimmer in icy waters. To breathe.
I began Lent early. In the quiet of the ice and snow, in the early morning. When I fingered a falling petal on my nightstand instead of reaching for my phone. When I downloaded Aundi Kolber’s, “Try Softer” on Audible and felt silent hot tears find their way down my dry cheeks. When I finally sent difficult emails that I had been putting off because I believed that if it wasn’t in writing I could still create my own reality- instead of facing the one staring me down like a wild animal. I held a cup of coffee with oatmilk (I am also embracing my lactose intolerance) as I pressed send with my eyes closed. I have to do these things, I thought. Clean things out. Clear the mess and noise. Stop the whirling.
Before lunch. Before loss. Before, Lent.
I drag the giant pasta pot out from underneath the cabinet where it hides until we have the need to boil lobsters or, in this case, make enough stock to sip on and use in soups and stews and boil rice in; for when we need a quiet nourishment seeping into everything. I open the freezer and rifle through the frozen odds and ends of carrots and celery stalks and chicken carcasses and plunk them one by one into the pot. I add two onions, halved with skins on into the pot. A whole head of garlic cut in half also goes in. Whatever vegetables that look wilted and rubbery in the drawer find their place in the pot. Sea salt, peppercorns, a few bay leaves and a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. I’m comforted by this process- the one that is not specific or precise. The one where I can take the dregs of what is left, add heat, and make something new. I cover the medley slowly to avoid splashing and let it simmer, untouched, for 24 hours.
I will add it to everything this Lenten season. I will use it as a double entendre and go around saying, “Strong Stock” and flex my arms. And I will believe it will be part of what heals us.
Because I have to.
