Real Soup On the fleeting summer The field is alive with blackbirds. Their shiny heads bob in the tall grasses; short messages telegraph down from the scouts in the treetops reporting on the activities of a non-threatening intruder. The whole blue dome is full of light and birdsong. In the distance,
voices of children mingle in, discussing freedom and power. All together
it sounds like a message in code. Spontaneous wildflowers have popped up all around my little sitting place since I have been here last. A juvenile osprey pumps on toward the old sunrise to find some thermals and to practice soaring; a flicker gets to work on the shaggy trunk of a juniper, still young at a century. It is the chig chig chig of the big sprinklers that brings us here, all of us. Including some good frog rhythms on the outside edge. It is abstract, this piece. Improvised. Non-sequential. The purest subtle jazz. And it is the early mild sun and the breeze, just a shimmer of it, and the pale, sweet, green scent of summer that holds us all. Listening to each other, watching for shifts in the rare and delicious atmosphere. Failed to execute CGI : Win32 Error Code = 3 Curious wrens might fly in very close and park in a coyote bush and fix your gaze with one questioning eye at a time. The seasonal peak, like any great and lovely phenomenon, is poignant for all its endowed beauties. Revel now, warns the undercurrent; this will not last. Its warmth will turn to punishing heat and burn the grasses. Pollen and dust will merge into twin evils, invading sensitive breathing avenues with their pernicious irritants turning ordinary people into teary, dripping, snorting, revolting, kleenex-toting nose conveyances. Rapacious insects, full of hubris and other toxins, with their annoying airs of prepossession, will search out blood and picnics at all the best and secret tiny lakes, launching their shrewd machineries into delicate human flesh in their annual bid for dominion. Failed to execute CGI : Win32 Error Code = 3 After months of imported pink rubber substitutes, nothing causes greater excitement in the produce market than the arrival of the wooden crates of forgivably irregular, hot-scarlet Early Girls with their authentic juice and flashy flavor. One begins whipping up aioli and devouring tomato sandwiches for breakfast, slicing them with Mozzarella and sweet onions and chopped fresh basil or pesto or just vinaigrette for dinner. Or carrying them, whole and a cappella, on hikes and lawn chair outings. And, truly, one needs to make, for at least one memorable, completely seasonal meal, the queen of summer soups, the Andalusian delight, Gazpacho. Since this recipe is my husband's, you may detect in it if you will, his enjoyment of ultimates, as well as the undertone of courtship and drama which pervade his cooking, and which are so sublime in a chilled soup on a feverish afternoon. Failed to execute CGI : Win32 Error Code = 3 3 large fresh ripe tomatoes, peeled if you like 1/2 large cucumber, peeled and chopped 1/2 medium mild onion 1/4 green pepper, quartered 1 pimiento, drained, optional 1/2 C. canned tomato juice Blend to puree the vegetables. Put this mixture into a half-gallon jar or other good-sized container and add: 2 1/2 C. tomato juice (24 oz. total) 1/4 C. good quality olive oil 1/3 C. red wine-vinegar 1/2 tsp liquid hot sauce (more if you like) 1 1/2 tsp. salt 1/8 tsp. coarsely ground black pepper 1-2 cloves garlic, split Refrigerate this mixture, covered, at least two hours. It keeps for days if kept cold, improving with time. If you have room, chill soup bowls, too. Failed to execute CGI : Win32 Error Code = 3 This is a simple offering, so vivid and quick, moral and low calorie, a majestic tonic, equal to the restless simmer and swat of midsummer evenings. |
