There are nights in the summer, when the air is especially calm, and the windows are all open, and things are especially quiet, and the tide is exactly right, when I can hear bay waves against the shore from my bed. It’s rarer than you’d think, if you know my blessed proximity to the water, and every time it happens I think about how it would blow the mind of the kid I was growing up in the desert. Tonight, while I was blissing out listening to the rhythm of the water crashing against the sand while I folded laundry, a pedicab full of drunk, English tourists whizzed by, and all I could hear was the motor, the tires grinding against the asphalt, and the men, improbably chanting “Toot! Toot! Toot!"

One of them erupted “Albert, I love you! I love you Albert, but you’re going too fast!” And then they were gone, off toward the very end of the road, and I was back with the waves.

No to put too fine a point on it, but that’s a pretty solid microcosm of our lives here at the end of the world — quiet moments of surprising and peaceful joy occasionally interrupted by violent bursts of drunken enthusiasm.

It’s been months since I even had a thought I deemed worthy of putting down on paper, and I’m not sure why that one sang out tonight. The horrors have obviously been monumental, frequently to the point that I don’t even know how to synthesize the information in my own brain, nevermind being able to find anything useful or helpful to say about them.

Here’s one of the only helpful antidotes I’ve read to that feeling in months, from Mariame Kaba:

I found that in Laura Olin’s tremendous and always inspiring newsletter, which I’ll never stop recommending to smart people whose brains need small joys.

I’ll admit that I’m fresh out of energy for optimism at this particular moment. But I can report that in the face of despair, a barrage of unspeakable news, and the general sense that we really are so deeply cooked in ways we have not even figured out yet, our instinct has been, as you might expect, to gather people around and feed them well.

Sean and I spent the first half of this year building out a new cocktail and snack cubbyhole with our friend Ben, that’s brought us all (along with very sore muscles and a few panic attacks) wild fits of joy. Not just because all three of us always wanted to own one of these things, but also because we — as a town, as a community, as people — just really needed something nice to be excited about, in a place where we’re encouraged to relax and be exactly ourselves. We wanted to make Ladyslipper a queer space for everyone to meet, flirt, snack, laugh, and feel some relief from the worry. Bonus points that there’s a disco ball.

We got called “a rich jewel box” in Boston Magazine this week, which is an honor we do not take lightly. We hope you get to come see us soon.

I don’t have much food news to report, as I’ve mostly been making the same 25 things over and over again in batches so big they would make most people feel a little nauseous, but I am deliriously happy to say that “Simmering” has been shortlisted for a LAMBDA Literary Award!

I can feed your ears, though. Here’s the first playlist I made for Ladyslipper. Shuffle it and try to make out, or at least chill out.

“Shrimp Cocktail” on Apple Music

You’re reading “Soup and Despair,” an occasionally regular newsletter by Sarah Flynn and Rebecca Orchant. It’s about food, feelings, and surviving the dark times. If someone forwarded you this email, it’s because they love you and they want you to eat. You can subscribe to it too!