There is a woman in Pittsburgh who goes by the Instagram handle Brothmonger. She has a newsletter where she shares recipes and announces when and where she'll be selling her soup next. I am not the sort of person who stands in line for exclusive sneakers. I like them, sure. Not enough to brave the weather, though. I am decidedly, aggressively unbrave in the weather. But I will endure for her soup pop-ups. I will stand in the rain. I will shiver in the cold. I will sweat in the awkward Pittsburgh summer heat, which vaguely replicates the experience of biting into a fresh-out-the-toaster frozen waffle that hasn't cooked all the way through. What I am saying is that she has out-of-character-worthy soup. Her soup makes you question your choices.
This day, she broadcast that she was selling crab bisque at a deli close to my house. Crab bisque. Close to my house. It was like all the stars had aligned. Better yet, like all the stars had planned to align in my mouth.