The rise of the stewfluencer is more than a TikTok trend. It’s a way of life.

Here’s the story of mouthbone soup.

I spent peak COVID in a house in the woods, 30 minutes north of Yonkers, with three women: my girlfriend at the time, her younger sister, and their mother, who had the constitution of a goat. During that long, dark season, I cared for them, and they cared for me.

Like any family, they had their quirks. For instance, they often kept a pot of gnawed drumsticks and cartilage, shanks, and knuckles gently boiling on the stove.

The family was crazy about homemade broth. Especially chicken. The recipe was blessedly simple: onions, carrots, chicken parts. The sister lived off it, golden and unctuous. She was sickly—even before the plague—and haunted the kitchen like a Victorian ghost.

Then there was the other broth. A cauldron of picked-apart rotisserie chickens, pork ribs sucked clean of meat, anything with marrow. I dubbed it “mouthbone soup.” It would bubble in the background for hours—all day.

The concoction would eventually be strained, and the broth would be frozen in leftover quart-size takeout containers. That January, as the snow fell, I remember thinking, “We are rich with broth.” It was comforting. Healing.

The days when the mouthbone soup wasn’t squatting over one of the back burners and burbling away were too quiet. During these lulls, I’d wonder when it was time for the next batch. Mouthbone soup had become a coping mechanism. A magic potion. The first line of defense against the plague.

I once proposed we keep it going, just leave the pot on the blue flame—a stew god to feed the night’s Peking duck leftovers. Think of the money we’d save, I argued. Imagine: waking up late at night for a tasty snack! Just dip a ladle into a bottomless pot of broth, and Mmmm.

This idea was considered and then forgotten. But I remember.

2.

I was stewfluenced long ago.

Recently the algorithm has been serving me social media personalities sipping and swirling perpetual stews, viral on TikTok and Reels, because the algorithm can read my memories and my subconscious. It knows what I long for.

And I dream about soups full of bones gurgling in the dark.

What is perpetual stew? It’s a way of cooking and a metaphor for life. A recipe and a frame of mind. The first rule: perpetual stew wastes not. The second: perpetual stew never sleeps.

Sometimes called hunter’s stew, this is a mighty, ancient familial meal that predates my social media addiction. The method is simple: slowly simmer a large pot of meats and aromatics for days or weeks. Months or years, even. The ingredients range from traditional soup base elements, such as celery, leeks, and chicken necks, to improvisational additions, like whatever’s on hand in the fridge or pantry. A can of beans or crushed tomatoes. A dollop of miso. A sprig of thyme.

Perpetual stews are replenished as they’re eaten, so the flavors deepen and evolve as new components are added, along with rejuvenating glugs of fresh water or store-bought broth, red wine, or soy sauce. Coconut milk? Go for it. This process goes on, either forever or until resources or interests are depleted.

Perpetual stews are junk drawers in liquid form, made from bits and bobs. The people who slowly whisk these brews are part Dr. Frankenstein, part alchemist. I was immediately transfixed by video after video of farmers’ market root vegetables, and exotic grains, and chunks of whatever was on sale at the butcher’s being dunked into the little hot tubs affixed atop the electric kitchen countertop range. There’s a fine line between a delicious-looking broth and a plumbing emergency, sure, and most of the stews on TikTok tend to be appetizing.

3.

The internet did not make up perpetual stews. They have existed, in different forms, across centuries and cultures. There is a theory that the stew was a medieval European invention, but that theory is frequently debunked. Would it have been too expensive to fuel a stew 24-7? A waste of resources, like wood for the hearth and the attentions of a serf?

It’s possible. There is a long history of cooking fires roaring endlessly. Botín, in Madrid, is the oldest restaurant in the world, according to the Guinness World Records, and its oven’s fires have allegedly been burning since 1725. Its specialty? Suckling pig. In Lockhart, Texas, the iconic Kreuz Market has been smoking oak since the 1920s.

There is a stew in the fashionable Ekkamai neighborhood of Bangkok that has been simmering for 50 years. (Or so they claim.) The stew is the centerpiece of Wattana Panich, a noodle shop that has been serving bowls of beefy, herbaceous broth since the 1970s, a near-legendary mélange of cilantro, garlic, and peppercorns. The giant metal bowl, five feet in diameter and two and a half feet deep, is cleaned out every night, but the broth is saved on the side and kept bubbling until it’s poured back into the pot and restocked with more cinnamon, black pepper, various Chinese herbs, and beef—almost 150 pounds a day.

I have heard of stews that last beyond a single meal, such as cholent, a hearty Sabbath stew prepared on Friday afternoon and then left gently simmering to serve as a hot meal the next day, when Jewish law forbids cooking. Cholent is rich with meat and lentils, marrying both European and Middle Eastern influences.

Perpetual stews are junk drawers in liquid form, made from bits and bobs

A cousin of mine once bragged that he had eaten at Mexico City’s Michelin-starred restaurant Pujol, which serves a complex “living” mole that has been slowly cooked, stirred, and tended to for almost ten years now. The chefs at Pujol dote on the mole like nuclear scientists, carefully recording its changing flavors while invigorating it with standards of the base, like ancho chiles and cinnamon and pecans, and seasonal ingredients, like apples or bananas.

The first time I ever heard the words “perpetual stew” was back in the summer of 2023, just as my post-lockdown social life was stabilizing. I remember thinking, “This is mouthbone soup.”

The New York Times had interviewed 23-year-old Annie Rauwerda, who was serving up vegan perpetual stew in Bushwick’s Fermi Playground once or twice a week, drawing crowds of more than 100 people. The stew gained momentum with a post on TikTok that received millions of views.

Rauwerda, a writer, comedian, and content creator, is circumspect about her brush with culinary microfame. It turns out there are people online who will mock you if you make stew for friends and neighbors.

Her perpetual stew was part performance art, part community get-together. She didn’t charge for it, and it lasted 60 days, ending on August 5, 2023. It reminded me of a hipster version of that children’s story about sharing, Stone Soup.

“People love the idea of communal soup,” Rauwerda told me. “The communal eating is something I think I missed during lockdown.”

“I just wanted to make friends,” she said.

4.

I tested positive for COVID last week. I thought I had a summer cold, but no. This is my first bout in years. I had almost forgotten it existed. My case was mild—a dry cough, ennui—and I am vaccinated, but the dreams were as strange as ever. In the purple cough syrup–colored fog, I summoned a single thought: mouthbone soup.

My wife procured me less powerful soups: Whole Foods chicken noodle, Campbell’s tomato, and wonton soup from the Chinese food hole-in-the-wall around the corner. But my fever craved a stew—a perpetual stew.

Remember Macbeth? I read it in high school. Doomed Macbeth. Remember the witches? The “Weird Sisters”? They were perpetual stew trailblazers.

Macbeth asks them about his fate. They chant directly to their cauldron: Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. And in their “hell-broth,” a devil’s brew seasoned with eye of newt and toe of frog, are visions of what is to come.

I have questions: Am I dreaming? Did the pandemic really happen? Did it ever end? Will I get better?

The answers are hidden in the soup, too, like a ham hock. So I sought advice while convalescing. I sent emails. I slipped into DMs. I searched for other stewsplorers. Sometimes too many cooks in the kitchen can improve the broth. They were the only people who would understand me.

But first, an expert.

Not everyone is immediately charmed by the idea of perpetual stew. “I was horrified,” said Janet Buffer, a food safety expert with the Institute for Food Safety and Nutrition Security at the George Washington University. “To be honest, I was like ‘Wow, that sounds terrible.’”

Her advice was practical. “I would strongly encourage them to brush up on their food safety and food handling,” she said. “Purchase a thermometer. Make sure they calibrate that thermometer. Make sure [the stew] is being held above 140 degrees.”

What if the temperature drops below 140 degrees? “Throw the product out.”

Duly noted.

5.

Next I reached out to the true believers.

TikTok’s perpetual stew community doesn’t have a leader, but everyone knows Stewtheus, a 130-day-old (and counting) perpetual stew unleashed by Zachary Leavitt, a 25-year-old content creator and perpetual stew pioneer whose account boasts 170,000 followers and whose stew is named after the mythical Ship of Theseus, which was slowly replaced over years, part by part, until nothing of the original vessel remained.

Zachary has long, dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, a look somewhere between heavy metal bassist and high school chemistry teacher. He posts updates every day, sometimes straining his stew of grit and sometimes adding new ingredients, such as barley, okra, or parsnips. His commentary reminds me of Shackleton’s diaries, matter-of-fact and focused. Different stakes, of course.

He was inspired, partly, by practicality.

“The idea of always having a warm meal ready whenever I wanted it stuck in my head,” he told me. “For those who work long, unpredictable hours, having a meal ready whenever is great.”

His advice for me? “Mushrooms are fantastic. Bones are your friends.”

In every daily episode, Zachary checks in on his creation, samples its broth, and rates the flavor, which mutates overnight depending on the previous day’s additions.

There’s a fine line between a delicious-looking broth and a plumbing emergency, sure, and most of the stews on TikTok tend to be appetizing.

There are times when his stew is unpleasant. During a recent experiment, he added hot dogs. A few days later, he revived the stew with mushrooms, potatoes, and lamb chops. He’s described Stewtheus as “onion-y”,” “lemony,” and “meaty.” Steering the taste of a perpetual stew is part of the fun for everyone making these videos. In a pinned video, Zachary paraphrases the Greek philosopher Heraclitus: “A man does not eat the same stew twice, for it is not the same stew, and he is not the same man.”

Aubrea Ash, 31 years old, is a self-described “soup enthusiast” whose perpetual stew, named Soupina, was inspired by Zachary and Stewtheus. She was already making soups from scratch “three to five times a week.” Soups save her money because she uses everything in her pantry and fridge to make them. One of her hacks? “I love adding spicy peppers.”

Are you interested in living the stew life? Aubrea’s first piece of advice is to name your soup. “I think it’s important to have a name,” she said. “Soupina’s name was thought of by a viewer in my first video.”

She warned against digital appliances. “Get a vintage manual Crock-Pot from eBay or a thrift shop near you.”

Oh, and textures, too. “Texture impacts perpetual soup more than normal soups.” If I live the stew life, I’ll have to strain my stew from time to time, since ingredients tend to turn to mush when they’ve been cooking for a long time. At its best, Soupina tastes “very fresh and very rich.” Aubrea told me there are distant hints of parsley, and acids, like vinegar or tomatoes.

It was because of Aubrea that I started following Brotholomew, which was created by AJ Ryan, 32, a mom and creator from Phoenix, Arizona. She was very firm with me about food safety before launching into the material benefits of her stew life.

“I’d say my grocery costs were cut at least by 25% in my first month,” she confided. “I’m cooking with things I can pick up for $10 at a meat shop.”

Perpetual stew has also boosted her health. “I lost 30 pounds. My hair started coming in thicker. My vision is getting better.”

How is this possible? “Soup bones,” she says. Brotholomew is garlicky and salty and full of umami. “I would compare it to osso buco,” she said.

Why are there so many people making perpetual stews?

“Times are hard right now,” she said. “The economy is in the crapper. The one little thing that I can control every day is Brotholomew.”

6.

I’ve spent the last week reclining like a pharaoh on his deathbed, diligently studying the daily trial-and-error culinary practices of Stewtheus, Soupina, and Brotholomew, learning from their mistakes (“Stay away from leafy greens”) and their triumphs (“I love adding turnips!”).

I am going to start my own perpetual stew. I have borrowed a broken-in Crock-Pot from a friend. I bought a food thermometer online. I’ve procured short ribs, celery, and onions. And I have plenty of the most essential ingredient: time.

The perpetual stewfluencers are in dialogue with their viewers, who frequently make ingredient suggestions in the comments, but I will not broadcast my, um, stewventure on social media. No TikTok. No Reels.

My stew is nameless—but I’m leaning toward something like Stew Kids on the Block. I will keep its temperature above 145 degrees Fahrenheit. It will murmur, and I will murmur back to it. In my imagination, I stir it slowly, round and round. The spoon is a magic wand. The white of the bone plays hide and seek, and for a moment, I am hypnotized. I am healed. I am mostly bones, too—meat and tendons. I am a fatty cut. My heart simmers and has for my entire life—decades. When I die, feed me to the stew gods and dish me out to strangers in a park.