This Brisket Reminded Me of My Beefs, and Now You’re Gonna Hear About Them

The brisket in question

Today was the first day of the Jewish holiday of Passover. In honor of this time of rebirth and repentance, I have decided to write about everyone I hate. It was inspired by a brisket stew I ate last night. I have beef.

I know what you might be thinking. He’s going to rant about soup-haters again. Or worse, salad eaters. Though I do have a biting inclination to eviscerate these people who are lower than dogs, that is not the purpose of today’s blog.

No, as I slurping my stew last night, I began to feel my thoughts ruminating just as the four stomachs of the cow from which the meat had been derived. I was inspired to speak my truth — and truth I must speak — for if a soup connoisseur cannot speak their mind, who can?

I know beef has been in the news lately. Kendrick Lamar Duckworth was recently in the post after winning a hip-hop beef against Aubrey Graham. Many are reciting his lyrics of “Not Like Us”. If I were to direct the lyrics of this song at people, it would be the lowly, non-soup-eaters. But allow me to compose my own diss below. I have amassed all the ingredients.

My first beef is one I have recently written about: graduate school. Yes, a soup connoisseur can have other passions besides soup. But many of you already know this. In fact, I do not study soup. However, I am often caught up in the soup of it.

I am sick and tired of the intellectual circle-jerk, or as I like to refer to it in soup terms, a bisque buffet. I refer to it as that because it is a high-class politic, a party divorced from the realities of every day life. Professors need to do something interesting. I don’t care about your book or your boring spin on an old source. Bring new ingredients to the table! You are akin to Bobby Flay making a cookie-cutter minestrone for the fifteenth time on his critically-acclaimed “Beat Bobby Flay”. Or, shall I say, this academic protocol is like “Beat Off Bobby Flay”.

I have beef with those who disrespect me. If only they knew I was a soup connoisseur. But they treat me as if I was nothing. I am a soup influencer, but they know me as naught. I deserve respect, the respect that any broth-loving individual should command. But no, I am not given the time of day or an equal seat at the table. It is if I am at one of those cursed, trendy ramen places in Japan “for introverts” where one slurps their soup alone with no waiter in sight. I do not want to live like that. But that’s what I have been relegated to in my academic life.

None of us should live in this solid state. Our lives should be fluid, constantly interacting with people. Life should be like one big melting pot, full of fondue and tomato broth. Instead, we are alienated from one another. Life should be like a soup kitchen! Marx could not have said it better. I’m sure he would proud of his favored soup connoisseur. But no, life has become like a Japanese ramen “introvert” restaurant. The horror.

I was chewing on this last night just as I was chewing on a piece of beef. I was in the company of friends and family and my undeniable humor and “rizz” (which I am told is similar to when everyone loves your gumbo) were flowing. I was making the ladies laugh. Everyone was enjoying my jokes at the expense of the grumpy, 72-year-old Yankees fan who runs one of Los Angeles’ premier music stores who was seated to my left. Even my sister, who has sought to deprive me of soup my entire life, and her friend were laughing. But I felt unsettled, like a pot of soup that hasn’t been properly been turned to the “simmer” setting. I had beef.

I had beef with those that do not respect my time. I have no time. I must write, but I must also read. I must go to class, but I must research. I must fill out applications, but I also must meet with people. And all the while, I must eat soup!

But they don’t want you to eat soup. They don’t want you to feast on a broth of your making. They don’t want you to slurp udon with your friends. They don’t want you to use a ladle.

No, they want you to buy bad solid foods. They want you to stop off for a quick sandwich. Yes, to find time to read and write and research and network and pay and sleep and work, they want you to sell your soul AND your stomach. They want you to go for the quick food option to fill your soup-begging belly.

Soup is the food of leisure. It is the food of liberation, of balance with responsibility. It takes time to cultivate a strong broth. Then one must let it simmer for hours, it absorbing the juices of its meats and vegetables. But in our fast-paced, capitalist, disrespectful society, we have no time for soup. We have no time to wait patiently and use our rizz while we anticipate being rewarded with the wonderful smell of a French onion soup. We have no time to sit back and watch the baseball New York Mets and rant about how much you hate the Mets even if they inevitable win.

No, none respect my time. I am a mere pawn in their game, as Bob Dylan, whose songs I liken to a warm bowl of chili on a cold winter’s day.

None help me obtain my funding, my daily bread. Elon and his DOGE goons have cut my money for the summer. I wish to dump soup on them.

I have beef with many, but not with this brisket. It is quite good. It was made by my mother, and although we may have historically had beef, I’m willing to overlook it for this soup. The meat falls apart perfectly just as my day does whenever the Mets lose and/or I am told I am not getting funding. I indulge in a carrot, a potato, or the quite layered brussels sprout. Indeed, this is one of her best briskets. What a Passover! What a time to commemorate the time Moses couldn’t get respect at the court of the very foul Pharoah.

But Moses wasn’t asking for good viscosity. He wasn’t asking for a broth that doesn’t get cold too easily. He wasn’t even asking for more potatoes in his stew. He only wanted the foul Pharoah to let his people go. Just like the ancient Israelites in this story which definitely never happened, I also seek to be liberated. I also want to cross my Red Sea. But like them, I am wandering in the desert, parched. But I do not want God to feed me manna. I want God to bring me soup.

All my peers want to go to the land of milk and honey. But I want to go to the land of matzo balls and hominy. Soup is all I require. Perhaps I shall deny my detractors soup!

In short, take pity on a soup connoisseur. We are the first victims in any society.

Soup score: 10/10 dictated by my mother