Dr Naomi Wolf

Jul 21, 2023

I was supine on the couch, as I have been for a couple of weeks now, recovering from my very near brush with the Void. I’ve given myself, with my doctor’s blessing, permission to be in a state of “rest” — that retro condition — without guilt, for a while at least; which seems at once naughty and luxurious.

Brian, my husband, made me chicken soup, as Dr Ealy has prescribed pretty much just smoothies, soups, and fermented foods for me, till I am stronger.

I noticed some chunky white strips floating in the soup, like thick little rafts. “What is that, honey?”

“Pork fat. It will give it flavor.”

“You know this is supposed to be Jewish chicken soup, right?” I asked, smiling.

“You have to respect my Irishness,” he declared.

I did, and the soup was delicious: “restorative”, as we say, half-joking, in our household. I felt the life force burn a little brighter in me as I blew on my spoon, and took it all in.

Chicken soup has a very allegorical presence in our history. A Jewish chicken soup I made long ago, it is not an overstatement to say, turned our relationship from that nervous status of “dating,” to the steady path to marriage.

Nine years ago, Brian and I had been courting for about six months. I was still incredibly jumpy about him, part delighted and part terrified. Half of me believed that he had been sent by some intelligence agency to infiltrate my life and my social network.

What was he doing hanging around me so consistently, I wondered? He was much younger than I, very handsome, sort of scary, extremely comfortable with a range of weapons, and strangely highly trained in many arcane white and black arts.

He was not like anyone I knew. He had hacker friends. He had spy friends, and mercenary friends, and special operator friends. And he was friends too, oddly, with a couple of governors, a couple of ambassadors, and some high-level businessmen; as well as being friends with riffraff of all kinds.

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