By Holly Richards1
I was laid off a year ago. The shock hit me like the kind of bomb blast you see in action movies like Hot Fuzz or Bad Boys. I could feel it coming, but only moments before it hit. It was my straight-A-student overachiever blind spot. My mind flashed back to my high school yearbook's superlatives page, where the words “Most Likely to Succeed” were under a photo of me holding a mobile phone to my ear with one hand and a fistful of dollar bills in the other. I could hear my former bosses calling me a “rockstar” and a “unicorn.” But here I was now: a “failure”.
The shame covered me like that goo in Howl’s Moving Castle after his blond locks are accidentally turned dark. (It’s niche, but Studio Ghibli knows how to animate a metaphor.) The titular character freaks out in front of the mirror, immediately folds up, making himself small while the ooze starts to seep out of him and coat his entire body. I felt that way. It was draining.
It took weeks of lying in bed, listening to podcasts (mainly Proxy and Las Culturistas), Julia Fox’s memoir, the messy realness of Charli XCX’s BRAT, and Ariana Grande’s compelling tribute to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for me to regain strength. The beauty of 2024 is that it led me to believe that women were allowed to be a confused mess, and all the Culture repeatedly confirmed this, especially the music.
As I emerged from bed, I knew that I needed to pour my energy into something else. But my confidence and my concentration were shot. Turning the dial from work to self was going to take time. I needed something that would “fill my cup” and give back to me without asking for perfection. I listened to my gut, and it was hungry.
That’s how I turned to stocks. No, not the Wall Street kind. The bone and root kind. The kind that takes the essence out of what you put in—even when that seems exhausted and finished—and develops it into something unexpected, delicious and filling. A gift.
TikTok made Strega Nona into a verb in 2024, but that Italian grandmother witch and her pot were a staple of my childhood bedtime reading routine. As I grew into a teenager, I remember the height of the “Chicken Soup for the Soul” era. It felt like everyone was reading those books, especially the “adults” in my life. I was completely disinterested, but something about these cultural references stuck. A witch’s brew and comfort food like no other.
My approach is that of an alchemist. I don’t trust clocks, timers, or measuring cups. I don’t like to read recipes all the way through before I get started. (Step-by-step instructions be damned!) Instead, I use all of my senses. I work from what remains, accumulating odds and ends from previous meal preparation—onion and garlic skins, leek stems, potato, carrot, and radish peels, hollowed-out lemons and oranges, chunks of ginger and other roots and herbs, and animal bones. I even hold onto lobster shells and shrimp peels. They reside in my freezer, waiting for the simmering salty bath that’s to come.
I pull out my big red stockpot, drop in the mishmash, and cover it with water. Two heaping scoops of salt to bring the flavors back to life. I set it on fire until it begins to boil. I turn it down to a simmer and cover it. Then I let it brew for as long as it takes to smell delicious.
When it’s ready, I scoop the jumble of odds and ends into a bowl with a slotted spoon. They have done their part. I taste the stock with a tablespoon. There’s something spiritual about this moment: seeing where it came from, honoring the contribution of the mess.
The result gets strained into containers and will go on to enhance so many delightful meals with friends and loved ones. A soup, the perfect pot of rice, braised meat, or veggies that needed a liquid boost. (The possibilities are endless!)
Months of brewing have helped me learn more about my own resilience. I recently underwent a lengthy recruitment process for a job and didn’t receive an offer. The feedback call with the company was brutal because the insecure voice in my head said, “They saw that you are messy, and messy is not what they want. You didn’t pass the test. You have failed again.” It was hard to contain the salty tears as I looked at the recruiter on the other side of the screen and felt the same shame of rejection almost a year later.
Instead of doom-scrolling LinkedIn, I took out my pot and started brewing. I turned on Lady Gaga’s new album Mayhem. That clever Italian-American witch said what I needed to hear. I opened the Google Doc where I had started this essay and began typing again. “Abracadabra” played in the background.
Suddenly, I realized that it didn’t matter. I had the power. I could take my mess—all the oddities and ends—and treat it like a stock. Let it brew. Down to the essence. With time and patience, something new and delicious will emerge.
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Helen Lo2. See more of her work here.
Read Holly’s first Gullet story Smallest State, Best Plates
Holly Richards is the author of several unpublished manuscripts, essays and screenplays. She used to write speeches, talking points, and presentations for the geopoliticians. Now she spends time growing and making her own food.
Helen Lo is an illustrator who creates whimsical and surreal art with a strong sense of narrative. Drawing from her roots in Hong Kong and her experiences in the UK, she weaves elements of both cultures into her work. One of her favorite ways her art has been described is as "a bundle of light." She believes that holding onto a childlike imagination is essential to staying creative.