Dear Readers,
A Summer’s Garden Fête
At summer’s end, when the days are still long, I arrange a gathering—un repas en plein air. A time before the season turns, when days, still remain hot, but the nights turn cordial as the sun wanes. My friends and I love a reason to gather.
The guests have replied, eager for the fête that has become an annual ritual. I am excited by this new tradition. I look forward to cooking, serving fine wine and champagne, and watching their faces brighten as the meal unfolds.
I meander through my garden, taking inventory of this year’s harvest. Like my neighbor, who has spent nine months awaiting her summer arrival—a newborn—I, too, marvel at life. I think of the unseen creatures who share this space, sustaining everything.
A bee buzzes close, its round black-and-yellow body diving into the delicate face of a pink hibiscus before disappearing into the orange trumpet of a zinnia. Beneath a broad leaf, a worm burrows into the rich dark soil while an ant navigates a labyrinth of clods and stems, carrying its provisions with tireless resolve. Above, the sun’s heat presses down—unrelenting. I pause, caught in the slow, deliberate choreography of nature’s rhythm, a world within.
By now the morning dew has dissipated. A small tingle of sweat breaks through, gains pace, and trails down my back, catching in the seams of my blouse. By midday it will be too hot, too uncomfortable to continue, so I must not waste time—only a moment’s pause to reflect.
I run my palms over the blossoms, lingering on the soft, delicate petals. My skin, veined and no longer youthful; tells a story of a life spent living. I find it revitalizing touching the corolla, breathing in the mingled smells of rose and lavender that perfumes the air after my hand passes over them. I notice and admire the jolt of yellow sunflowers—their faces bright. The edge of each bed run together, leaves and blooms leaning this way and that, touching.
Bending down, I ease myself slowly on to stiff knees, my faded brown twill pants press against the firm, uneven earth. The plants intensify the day’s humidity, the air is thick.
Adjusting my position, I prepare to pluck the profusion of ripe vegetables. Working in the garden, my grandmother’s voice comes back to me, as it often does here. She used to say that every garden plot tells its story in the soil, never to be wasted, but tended and shared. I pause, her words guiding my hands as I reach beneath the broad green canopy of the leaves. Her wisdom still echoes in my ears.
I remember heartache, followed unexpectedly, by joy. My parents died suddenly in a car accident. I was not yet twelve years old. I crossed an ocean to live with my grandmother in the French countryside of Provence. Growing up with her, I was part companion, part observer—watching, listening, learning. It was only she and I after my parents’ death. I cherished our time in the garden. That was the place she seemed happiest. Every year when the moment was right, she joyfully prepared an
end-of-summer meal for friends.
In my mind I address her, I miss you.
Now, my fingers move rapidly, searching for the weight of ripeness. At last, I find fruit, I twist and release it to freedom. I reach over to pick the snap beans, they are smooth and waxy, their slim pods in groups. Then I move over to the peas that will slip easily from their furry jackets with a pop. I reach up to grab the dark plump supple figs from one of the trees, they release with almost no resistance, their weight both tender and solid. I place each piece with care into the woven baskets to preserve against bruising. I spray a fine mist across the foliage, droplets catching the light. Looking upward to the cloudless sky, I see only blue—until my eyes shift toward the sliver of sea glinting through the swaying tree limbs.
I look down on the lush plantings that shimmer in a wash of color: reds that lean toward rust, glossy grassy green hues, translucent pinks fading to white, gold like a worn linen, the bruised violet of eggplant. A painter’s palette scattered across the horizon.
When the basket is full, I carry the day’s bounty into the workroom, where the large white basin awaits. As I release the yield to be washed, a memory surfaces—last summer, when the kitchen was alive with the scent of garlic and lemon, and the sharp perfume of basil wofted through the open window. It was the moment just before my guests arrived, when anticipation gave way to joy.
I can still hear the approach of footsteps, see their faces turning toward the open door, hear the hums of delight at the aroma filling the house. Outside, the table waits beneath the old oak, dressed in its patterned Provençal cloth, its surface crowded with dishes that lived only hours before in their earthly Eden. Echoes rise through the branches—the sounds of a celebration that will not soon be forgotten.
I greet my guests with a tray of crystal goblets filled with a local rosé, crisp white wine, and flutes of champagne fizzing with dancing bubbles. Each guest receives a small plate—Gien pottery, in shades of pale pink and sea-glass blue—displaying an assortment of sliced gallant tomatoes, radis avec beurre, and freshly cut carrots. Trays of black and green olives are passed around the circle followed by loaves of crusty bread, still warm from the oven, that melts into soft buttery flavored packets of dough when eaten.
“You always serve beauty on a plate,” my friend Karena says, as she reaches for another round of the glossy, oil-drenched fruit. “Even the olives look painted.”
At the repas, everyone seated, they become animated as the dishes arrive fresh from the kitchen—the meal begins. Platters brim with textures and fragrances, each adorned with nasturtiums and tiny violets, yellow and purple, sweet and small. The chorus unfolds with exchanges rising and falling like a melody, the faint chime of cutlery against porcelain keeping time.
Each course has its rhythm—seven in all. Bowls filled with courgettes, haricots verts, and tender petits pois gave way to richer offerings. My favorite arrives midway: crispy frites, golden and thin, each held between thumb and forefinger, eaten slowly—one at a time. The meats and tartares follow, woven with sprigs of arugula, sweet mesclun, and soft lettuces, layered with spice.
Discourse and debate ripple—as twilight slips in. The orange orb disappears behind the trees, stretching the day toward its last, luxurious light.
“The air smells of thyme and something divine,” Clara says, leaning in, taking a breath. “Hmm, delightful.”
“ Lavendar,” I replied, smiling. “Repurposed for our dinner.”
“You’ve turned all this into an art form,” said Charles, the vintner, swirling his glass of white wine. “I only hope my dessert wine is worthy of your divine artistry.” Modesty on his lips.
“No doubt, it will be perfect. What a segue. Shall we?”
Dessert beckons. A few ineffectual protests arise, but resistance is futile. The abundance of fresh plump, soft figs mark the height of the season, strawberries with fresh cream, raspberry and blackberry compote, a plate of cheeses, and rich chocolate bonbons, all accompanied by Charles’s sweet dessert wine.
“Votre vin est une vraie réussite, magnifique!” déclare Pascale. “À Charles!” Glasses are raised in a toast, and for a moment the air glistens clear and burgundy.
Coffee follows, strong and black, the coda to finish the sonata. We sip the satisfying digestif.
During our meal, guests supply entertainment comparable to an opera. Music floats through the air. Charlene, our bassist, has assembled a string quartet that plays both classical and jazz, their harmonies rising and falling like the courses of the meal. Music and food move together—slow and elegant, then quick and bright, improvising in tandem.
JP, the writer, tells a story that has us in belly rolls until tears run down our faces. Then, Carlo, the poet, reads a lyrical verse, calling us inward, his lulling rhythm rising against the refrain of nature. He leaves us breathless reflecting on his words.
Nathan, the photographer, drifts among us, capturing the play of light, the curve of a smile, a glass raised mid-toast. Toni, the painter and Eva the sculptor have adorned our setting—a small painted canvas of a vase, filled with muted blue and red tulips, leaning into one another.
Eva, the sculptress has created miniature figures of Fortuna, goddess of fortune—delicate and white, a token of good fortune placed at the top of each plate.
At the end of our meal, Luna’s gift appears—a collection of azure colored dessert bowls she shaped and fired herself, each brimming with sweets. It is her way, she says, of providing a keepsake.
After dinner and dessert, Vivian, the playwright, reads her work— a comedy written with each of us in a starring role.
“Now,” she announces, waving a napkin like a flag, “Act Three: The Finale of Fortuna!”
“Is this the part where I…?” Toni begins.
“No,” she says with mock gravity cutting him off. “You’re the muse. The tomato you refer to has far too much gravitas for you.”
A wave of merriment bursts out crossing the table from each corner.
“Then who’s Fortuna?” asks Carlo, the poet.
“Our host, Jackie, “bien sûr,” Vivian declares, bowing toward me. “She feeds us from her Jardin—clearly a goddess in disguise.”
Someone raises a glass: “To Jackie!”
“And to Vivian, the playwright,” I add, smiling.
After the scenes, Françoise, the astrologer, enlightens us with predictions based on the stars alignment, while Jared, the entrepreneur, invites us to imagine worlds yet to be.
As darkness deepens, the air turns cool, at last. There is a moment—the kind one experiences with friends sharing something rare. I look at their faces, each illuminated by the shimmer of the firmament overhead.
I think how my harvest and my guests are not so different: growing, ripening, fading, some perennial, some without succession.
As the evening draws to a close, I collect a few stray glasses, listening to the soft rustle of departure.
“Next year,” someone calls as they gather their things, “we’ll do it again, won’t we?”
“If the garden wills it,” I say, flattered.
When the last voices drift down the path and only silence remains, I can still hear the revelry tangled with the clicking of the cicadas. It lingers long.
Tonight will be fresh, I think to myself—perhaps familiar, not a
re-enactment, something distinct, something wholly new. I return to the task of the moment, focusing, my hands move quickly, transforming the profusion like notes into a full symphony. Soon there will be the lilt of chatter, the clink of glasses, the hum of a harmony carried across the breeze and I will stand once more in the transforming light of summer’s zenith—happy.
***
I hear my grandmother speak as clear as when I was a girl standing next to her among the rows of flowers. I turn, and she is there—radiant, young again, her eyes alive with mischief and warmth.
“Grandmother,” I say, startled. “You’re here, in France? I don’t understand…Wait… am I…am I dead?”
“My darling,” she says, her fingers twined around mine. Her words threaded with both happiness and longing. “I love you.”
I feel the weight of her grip loosening. I gasp.
Then, I wake.
I lie for a moment with my eyelids closed. Slowly, I open them, blinking at the morning light spilling through the window. I hear the sound of nature, birds chirping, sea gulls yowling, the natural world awake around me. Grandmother’s gentle touch has vanished. I breath, pushing away my sadness and my desire to linger with her a moment longer. Waking fully, a tear escapes, and I begin another day.