This lovely, light soup is full of summery flavors. The meatiness of the vegetables lends a velvety texture without the addition of cream: so delicious, so virtuous.
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I love the peacefulness of August. The springtime makes me restless, full of nervous energy and anticipation. With everything in nature expanding and pushing upward, it’s harder for me to find my own stillness. But about a month after the summer solstice, I can feel a shift. It’s that sweet, languorous moment of the year when the earth seems drowsy under the weight of its fruit, ready to offer it up and slip graciously back towards the darkness.

For some of my ancient predecessors (the Irish ones), August 1 was Lughnasadh, the first day of autumn and a celebration of the first grain harvest of the year. In Celtic mythology it was the funeral feast of the harvest goddess Tailtiu (see last year’s First Fruits). Though it’s a happy, hopeful time, the underlying theme is sacrifice, as the grain is cut down so that humans may be bountiful. For me it’s a quiet opportunity–free of the pomp and fanfare of Thanksgiving–to be grateful for my own plenty, to honor the changing season, and to prepare for the journey back towards darkness, where new things grow.

For Lughnasadh this year I’ll be making the beautiful, earthy Rosemary Diamante Bread I discovered at Waverly Fitzgerald’s site, School of the Seasons. The recipe is itself adapted from Carol Field’s The Italian Baker. Because I had so much rosemary, I pressed a sprig into the loaf you see above. As it’s the herb of remembrance, it seemed particularly appropriate.

A favorite book of mine, Alexandra Stoddard’s Gift of a Letter, points out that one should never begin a letter by apologizing for not having written sooner. Having said that, I’ll share a bit of what has filled the many days between right now and that last bowl of soup: Still Life Painting in Southern Europe, 1600–1800 and Botanical Imagery in European Painting, published on The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Timeline of Art History.

Inspired by the startlingly unidealized still lifes of Caravaggio and his followers, I filled a bowl with this week’s haul of veggies from my local CSA (here including kale, fava beans, cucumbers, and a zucchini) and snapped away without primping, spritzing, or overly arranging. I realized what incredible pleasure there is in not choosing the most beautiful specimen or the most flattering angle, but simply depicting what is. This summer my kitchen is overflowing with greens, more than I’ve ever cooked with or eaten before, and the more time I spend with things that come out of the earth the more singularly beautiful I find them for their imperfections.