The Day Charles’ Soup Spoke Louder Than His Closet
This is a tribute to my friend Charles, the closeted gay man of rural Southern Illinois Baptist life — and the only man who could out‑cook, out‑class, and out‑maneuver Sister Myrtle
Every time I make this soup — that silky, basil‑bright, funeral luncheon masterpiece — I can’t help but laugh. Not at him, never at him, but at the memory of who he had to be in that little Southern Illinois church kitchen. The careful choreography. The coded smiles. The way he could stir a pot and swallow a truth in the same breath.
Charles was the kind of church gay who could fold a tablecloth so perfectly it looked ironed by angels. He could arrange a funeral luncheon spread with the grace of a Martha Stewart intern and the secrecy of a CIA operative. And yet, somehow, nobody ever “knew.”
Or rather… they knew, but they didn’t “know,” because that’s how rural Baptist churches work. Denial is a fruit of the Spirit.
And Lord, the way he navigated those potlucks.
He’d walk in with a dish so good it could raise the dead, and the church ladies would whisper,
“That Charles… he’s just got a special touch.”
Which, in Baptist code, means “We’re not saying anything, but we’re saying everything.”
But the day he brought this creamy tomato–basil soup to a funeral luncheon?
That was the day he became a legend.
Picture it: a rural church basement with fluorescent lights flickering like they were speaking in tongues. Crockpots lined up like mourners. Deviled eggs sweating. Ham sandwiches wrapped in cling film so tight they could survive a tornado, a flood, and the Second Coming.
And then Charles walked in with a slow cooker full of this soup — fragrant, silky, basil‑kissed, and absolutely not the kind of thing the church ladies considered “appropriate” for a funeral luncheon.
Enter: Sister Myrtle:
Every church has one.
Every church needs one.
Every church fears one.
She looked at Charles like he’d brought a drag queen to the deacons’ meeting.
“Soup?” she said, her eyebrows climbing toward heaven like they were trying to escape her face.
“At a funeral luncheon ?”
Charles just smiled that quiet, knowing smile — the one closeted men in small towns perfect for survival — and plugged in his slow cooker like he was lighting a candle at the altar.
And baby… when they tasted it?
The room went silent.
Not grief‑silent.
Revelation‑silent.
The kind of silent where even the Holy Spirit pauses to take a bite.
Sister Myrtle took one spoonful, blinked twice, and whispered,
“Well… I’ll be.”
Then she took another spoonful, and suddenly she was guarding that slow cooker like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
People would approach and she’d say,
“Now don’t take too much — it’s delicate.”
Delicate.
From Myrtle.
This woman once described Velveeta as “fancy.”
By the time the deacons lined up for seconds, Myrtle had stationed herself right next to the slow cooker like she was Charles’ personal security detail.
Every time someone asked, “Who made this?” she’d clear her throat and say,
“This is Charles’ soup. He’s… gifted.”
Gifted.
From Myrtle.
That’s basically a canonization.
If the Baptists had saints, Charles would be the patron saint of Slow Cookers, Subtle Shade, and Surviving Small‑Town Sanctuaries.
🍅✨ THE RECIPE THAT MADE CHARLES A LEGEND
Ingredients
• 2 cans (28 oz) crushed tomatoes
• 1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes
• 1 onion, diced
• 3–4 garlic cloves, minced
• 3 cups chicken or vegetable broth
• 1–2 tbsp tomato paste
• 1 tbsp sugar
• 1 tsp kosher salt
• ½ tsp black pepper
• 1 tsp dried oregano
• 1 tsp dried basil
• ½–1 tsp red pepper flakes
• 1 packed cup fresh basil
• 1 cup heavy cream or half‑and‑half
• 2–3 tbsp butter
Instructions
1. Dump & Stir
Add everything except the fresh basil, cream, and butter to the slow cooker.
Stir like Charles used to stir the gossip — gently, but with purpose.
2. Cook
• Low: 6–7 hours
• High: 3–4 hours
Perfect amount of time for Charles to “help” rearrange the fellowship hall décor without being asked.
3. Blend & Bless
Add fresh basil and butter.
Use your immersion blender until it’s smoother than Charles’ ability to dodge questions about his dating life.
4. Cream It Up
Stir in the heavy cream.
Taste. Adjust. Whisper “fix it, Jesus”!
Reflection:
Charles isn’t here anymore. And Lord, I wish he could have lived his whole truth — not the edited version that rural expectations demanded, but the full, unfiltered, radiant self he deserved to be. The version of him that didn’t have to dim or dodge or disguise anything.
But here’s the part that gets me:
When I shared his story, and some of you laughed, or nodded, or felt that familiar tug of recognition… I swear I could feel him smiling. That soft, knowing smile he used when life was both ridiculous and holy at the same time.
So if you smiled while reading this — thank you.
If you saw a piece of yourself or someone you loved — thank you.
If you felt even a flicker of tenderness for a man who never got to live as loudly as he deserved — thank you.
In some small way, telling his story here feels like giving him a little of that freedom now.
A little of that truth.
A little of that light.
And I think he’d like that —especially the part where Sister Myrtle finally had to admit he out‑cooked her.
And honestly, I can just see her now: pretending she hasn’t read a word of this while secretly printing copies for her prayer circle, highlighting the parts where she thinks she was portrayed “favorably,” and acting like she discovered the whole story herself.
Somewhere, Charles is giving us that quiet little wink of his, like, “Told you she’d come around.”
Happy New Year!