Out walking the fields around my apartment building, which borders Brandenburg and is situated in the strange transitional edge of the city called Gropiusstadt, I found to my surprise that fall had come upon us all. Seemingly overnight.
At first the sense of Autumn came as a distant craving, the way it always does. I felt a sense of shoring up, of coming into a slow and steady state of repose, just the way one pulls the chest back, shoulders falling into relaxation and diminishes the step slowing a sprint to a jog to a stroll to a halt.
It was a warm day, but looking into the milky blue of the sky over a Berlin readying itself to fall back into the rhythms of the school year, I felt a bright prickle at the nape of my neck, a cool breath from somewhere not so far off. Perhaps only the coming weeks creeping up from behind, lurking quietly ahead, ready to overtake me in that cyclical, forever surprising arrival and departure.
For several days the stillness of late summer beat down from the cooling sun and the inescapable caaaaw|caaaaw|cawww of the numerous crows who live amongst our treetops seemed to reliably mark the quickening passage of time. Days closing sooner than they have begun, darkness unfurling on the landscape with a relentlessness I find uncaring and benevolent.
A few weeks ago, I found that the Rapeseed Fields had been ploughed in secret, never having seen the tractor, I wondered at the mysterious mechanisms that brought our long spindly, stalks to ankle height. These strange, buzzed and sharpened points unrecognizable to me. They are a ruddy brown and I can’t help but remember that this land is marsh. I can almost smell the brininess that should be pulsing up from the sandy earth, but it is already too cold for those scents to heat through the air and reach my nose.
Bright green acorns litter the path and the berry bushes display open wounds, having been plucked to barren, thorny bundles scattered along the pastures where our cows, too, slow steadily into September. I even caught them napping in the afternoon.
In Autumn I feel like myself. I putter about, topped off with sunshine and the lingering freckles of days spent out in the sun marking my cheeks, readying for the time of year when I feel the most surefooted.
Many people say it takes a year to feel at home in a new city. I’ve never had the opportunity to test the hypothesis, having scooped myself and my belongings up each year like clockwork for a long while now. But I am beginning to see what they mean. I know what will come next: our fields will break down and be hit with frosts. The trees around me will shift colors. The large oak which I see on my walks will steadily begin to smell that damp way that trees do as they remember, again, to drop their leaves. We will begin to eat soups and cuddle up on the couch with textbooks.
The fields will be spotted with strange, green sproutlings come March and we will ask ourselves what they may be, only to remember those tall, reedy stalks who came last year. The bird calls will shift, I will hear only the crows and the pigeons who remain in winter and I will say goodbye to the barn swallows and skylarks, who have littered my days with strange songs of a different language.
I come into my own in the fall. Leaning into the rhythms of patience, taught by long Idaho winters and slow cooking.
Last night we cooked a slow soup of parmesan rinds, and gathered sniffling noses to the table. A fat, heavy moon rose over the apartment blocks – full and colored with the pink-orange of the setting sun. As the bowls of soup emptied, leaving a shine of fatty, oily, cheesy sustenance upon our lips, the moon rose, shrinking slightly and its color shifted to a deep yellow, before hitting off-white.
I looked at the moon, felt the weight of broth in my belly, exchanged laughs with a new friend, swapping glances with my oldest, I felt the steady sense: I’m home.
Full Moon Soup
This soup not only mimics the color of the moon that marks the beginning of the new season, it will fill you to the brim with the resolute knowledge that you will carry through. Made from scraps, odds and ends, the broth seems to say a graceful and defiant hello to lean times ahead.
Eat it with the people you love and say goodbye to the dwindling summer with a subtle flourish.
There are many recipes for parmesan soup, but this particular one is inspired by Julia Turshens’. I adapted it to fit what I had on hand and didn’t use the measurements listed, but rather eyeballed pretty much everyhing: still tasted perfect.
Ingredients:
1 cup (or more, or less — make do with what you have) parmesan rinds, cubed
2-3 cloves of garlic, unpeeled and smashed
1 onion, unpeeled and cut in half (the original recipe called for a yellow onion, but I only had red and it worked out just fine).
1 Liter of water, or more
1/2 pound of pasta, smaller shapes like elbows or orzo or dittalini are welcome here, but not required
Peas, kale, spinach or any other green veggie you have hiding in the fridge or freezer
Crusty bread (optional)
Add parmesan, garlic, onion and water to a heavy-bottomed, medium pot and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook for at least 45 minutes or until the smell of parmesan begins to overwhelm your mortal human nose and you find yourself tasting the broth with impatience.
Salt the broth to taste.
About 10 minutes before you’d like to eat, add pasta to the boiling broth and cook until al dente. About 2 minutes before the pasta is cooked, add peas (or whichever vegetable you’d like) to the broth.
Serve steaming with fresh cracked black pepper and grated parmesan in deep bowls. Sit by the window.
Original Recipe adapted from Julia Turshen via Small Victories: Recipes, Advice + Hundreds of Ideas for Home Cooking.
This author pays respects to all exterior works and authors presented.