It is not the men’s wine

I am nearly over a brief cold. I can almost smell and taste fully again. I came down with a cold at the same time that I started my period. As snot and phlegm loosen themselves in my throat and nose, bright red blood flows from my uterus and into patient period panties. On this auspicious full moon in Leo; on this Valentine’s Day weekend. I cancel my plans and stay in. I sleep a lot. I endeavor to make chicken and vegetable soup in a crockpot. It’s my first time using this common kitchen tool, and I am suspicious of it.

Recipe: CHICKEN SOUP, Perfect for a Cold Soul.

Water

Whole Chicken, with or without skin

Yellow onion (1)

Fresh ginger (a ton)

Carrots (2)

Celery (3 ribs)

Optional: potatoes

Seasonings (added generously, or to taste):

Turmeric

Cumin

Cayenne pepper

Thyme

Salt

Pepper

Prep time: 15 minutes

Cook time: 7 hours

Result: Delicious Good Health

I chop up yellow onion and fresh ginger. I toss them in a pan with olive oil, and season them with turmeric (very generous), cumin, cayenne pepper, thyme, salt, and pepper. I let the onions and ginger sizzle and the edges brown before I place the mixture in the crockpot along with the whole chicken (with skin). The concoction turns the water a bright, golden yellow. I set the timer: 7 hours left.

“Do I have to wait to put the vegetables in? When do you usually add them?” I ask my mother.

My mother is lying on the couch next to my stepdad. They’re both browsing on their phones.

“It’s up to you,” she answers without looking up. “I just throw them in there right away so I don’t

have to think about it.”

The ambiguity of her directions does not comfort me. I eye the crockpot. I don’t trust this thing.

I chop up the carrots, celery, and potatoes (essential). I linger at their contours and colors. Celery may have ribs, but carrots have tiny varicose veins, and potatoes’ skin feels not too unlike my own when I haven’t oil-lotioned in a few days. I wonder if I should give them all a light frying as well. I decide against it. I place them in a silver bowl, toss them with olive oil and the same seasonings — turmeric (very generous), cumin, cayenne pepper, thyme, salt and pepper — and I wait.

I go back to my room. I blow my nose, checking the consistency of the snot before throwing the napkin away. Maybe it’s thinning out, I hope. Both the napkin and my mirror disagree, telling me to slow my roll. I acquiesce, curbing my enthusiasm to recover. My head is a swollen dish sponge. My stomach has bubbles inside of it, lightly twisting and gurgling between themselves.

I lie down and play language games on Duolingo. I do a few rounds each of Spanish, Hindi, and Greek.

I stay with the Greek lessons longer. I imagine breathing in the salty air of the Mediterranean. I imagine rolling olives across my tongue. I imagine living as an ancient Greek Goddess, nipples out, free and exposed in the sunlight — both terrifying and terrific. And yet doomed — to serve in a lesser man’s tragedy or epic drama.

My eyes grow heavy, fluttering open and closed as I attempt to learn my last few Greek words. I am learning how to show possession of something, or how to say who something belongs to.

“Το κόκκινο χρώμα του μήλου”

means

“The red color of the apple”

“Δεν είναι το κρασί τών ανδρών”

means

“It is not the men’s wine.”

“Η επιθυμία της γυναίκας”

means

“The woman’s desire.”

The Dayquil seeps into my bloodstream, relaxes my headache, and lightens my belly. Orange medicine swims in the red blood of a brown girl. I murmur to myself. My body feels less and less like form and more like cloud. My eyes close once again, and I dream with a woman’s desire.

I’m in a cocktail bar or restaurant, it is light-filled and glass-covered. Perhaps there are real plants here, and perhaps there are polka dot tile floors. I look at the wine list. The paper menu has a lifted, soft, slightly bumpy texture. The wine list is broken down by type or region. I am aware of my sensitivities to alcohol and gluten, but not fully conscious of every single trigger. I think of giving up altogether. But then I notice a heading two-thirds down the page. It carries symbols, perhaps an “N” for natural, and a “gf” for gluten-free. The wines in this section are from a particular region, in a particular language. Perhaps it is from Greece and in Greek characters.

The waitress — beaming, professional, warm, like AI took human form — comes to ask me what I’d like. I tell her I’d like to try one of these, pointing at the distinguished section of the page.

“Ah, yes,” she says, smiling with a sense of good folly and knowing.

Before me appears a mini bar with bottles behind glass. The bottles are varying colors of rouge, pink, and orange. They twinkle and wink at me. They whisper of a twilight zone from which they came. One bottle, the smallest, wrapped in a silver collar, catches my eye.

“I think I’ll try this one.” I press my finger to the glass.

“Good.” The waitress replies. “That one is the best.”

She removes the bottle from its glass carriage, and setting it aside, asks for my wrist. I give her my entire left arm. She presses a small needle into my vein, and pulls the syringe up. My blood (crimson, deep) quickly fills the cylinder. Then it is done.

“What’s that for?” I ask. “We have to test your blood to make sure you can drink this.” She smiles.

I pass the test.

I wake up a couple hours later. The light in my room is grayer now, but it is still daytime. I test the breathing capacity of my nose. Stuffed still, but improving. I peek into my period panties. Flowing, but lighter still.

I walk back into the kitchen. My mother is still on the couch, but my stepdad is gone. Bowling. He will win $2,000 in a tournament that night.

My mother is on a Zoom call. She is starting a new women’s group for the church, and today is their first meeting. They are studying a book called “Made to Crave” and its subsequent video lessons.

It’s raining, and the roof in the kitchen has had a notorious leak that refuses to be patched up by some two-dollar hire. So, every 100 days or so that it actually rains in Las Vegas, my mother and I arrange five or six of our houseplants on the floor beneath the leaks. The water drips, drops, and taps onto the leaves and soil.

“We have an indoor atrium!” My mother jokes.

I weave through the houseplants to retrieve the rest of the vegetables I chopped up for the soup. I place them into the crockpot and add more salt for good measure.

I fill a pot with water and place it on the stove on high. My porcelain teapot has peacocks, flowers, and tall grasses painted on its sides. I cut up more fresh ginger, leaving the slices thin and fleshy.

I listen to my mother’s Zoom conversation as I prep my tea. The first video lesson has begun.

“God’s girls,” says a woman with a thick Midwestern accent, “are meant to crave God, not food.”

“Amen.” My mother utters.

I place dried rose petals in my tea ball along with the freshly chopped ginger and insert it into my teapot. I take a lemon, rolling and pressing it back and forth across the counter before washing its skin and slicing it into thick wheels. I add a few slices into the tea.

“Any unrestricted pleasure is a red flag.” The speaker goes on.

I weigh two grapefruits in my hands. Compensating for my lack of smell, I try to feel which one is ripest by its weight, texture, and the amount of give it has with a small squeeze. I give up and ask my mom to smell them for me. The ripest grapefruit’s distinct scent will come through its peel.

“I don’t know… maybe this one.” My mother says, waving me away so she can focus on her program.

The answer is good enough for me.

I press my thumb into the grapefruit’s sphincter, removing the outermost layer of the peel before I make my way into its soft webbing.

(When people say they don’t like grapefruit, I am absolutely sure it is because no one taught them how to properly eat it. No one taught me, either, but I have found that instinct is a willing instructor. There are at least three layers you have to properly, delicately remove before you get to the gushy meat of it. The obvious thick outer peel, the spongy webbing, and the very thin layer, veins and all, surrounding each pink bulb. Then you’re left with just the glorious ruby-pink fruit–tangy, sweet, and juicy with no bitter protective shell. It’s heaven in your mouth. Eat mindfully.)

“‘If any man will come after me,’” the speaker bellows a verse, “‘then they must deny themselves and follow me.’ Matthew 16:24. This… is also applicable to food.”

I put a piece of grapefruit in my mouth, and its juices release themselves into me. I close my eyes, tilt my head back and let out a tiny breathy moan. It’s been two days without taste, but not even a cold can stop the sensation, scent, and flavor of a ripe grapefruit. I keep my eyes closed as I chew, whispering a mantra of gratitude, reverence, and defiance. I deny myself nothing.

The soup has four hours left to cook. I have both patience and desire.

I take my teapot, carrying it on a golden tray, to my room. I arrange two nightstands so I don’t have to get up from my bed to reach for anything I might need. On the nightstands are:

a glass of water

tea

two journals

a bluetooth speaker

two books on Greece

a book called How to Fuck Like a Girl by Vera Blossom

and another called At the Root of this Longing: Reconciling a Spiritual Hunger and a Feminist

Thirst by Caroline Lee Flinders

I lie back on my bed and close my eyes, letting disconnected words and tones from my mother’s conversation drift in and out of my consciousness. My body temperature rises. I think again, for a moment, how cruel it is to be sick while on my period, but I let the thought pass without entertaining it. I breathe through it, and notice– definite improvement.