Garden in a Bowl

Late summer is gazpacho season at our house. All the essential ingredients for this summer soup are abundant by August. My garden provides them: crisp cucumbers, onions, peppers, and plump tomatoes. And if I am low on something, the closest farm stand is stocked full. This chilled summer soup is always deeply refreshing. 

I first had gazpacho one hot summer night in 1970 at Hal and Flo Williams’s house in Bridgehampton. Hal and Flo were pioneers of organic gardening on the East End in the 1960s. And although they have both passed away, their legacy as organic gardeners, devoted neighbors, and food lovers is still celebrated by those of us who knew them. I honor Flo and Hal every time I make gazpacho.

Flo and I might never have crossed paths if not for boarding school in Massachusetts, where her daughter, Loie, and I became friends in 1970. I was from Southampton, and in those days, before the East End became one big Hampton, everyone pretty much stuck to his or her own village.

Loie and I bonded through our East End connection. We spent hours in the back seat on the five-hour carpools to and from school for vacations. And at school we bonded while sneaking out of dorms, smoking in secret places, discussing boys, and feeling homesick.

During summer breaks, Loie served hamburgers and scooped homemade ice cream at the Candy Kitchen in Bridgehampton, and I waited on customers, made keys, and mixed paint in Southampton at my family’s store, Herrick Hardware. Bridgehampton and Southampton were seven miles apart, but we had driver’s licenses and a new straight stretch of highway, Route 27, as long as one of us could borrow the family car.

I preferred Loie’s house. She lived in a simple red clapboard ranch that Hal had built on Halsey Lane in the late 1940s. Low ceilings and pecky cypress paneling gave a cozy feeling in the main living/dining room. Most days, four to five elderly friends and relatives, cared for by Flo, rested in the comfy chairs all around. The creaking screen door in the kitchen announced visitors. Flo welcomed everyone with “Come in, come in to see . . .” as she ushered us to the old folks. Loie’s Grandpa Williams chatted enthusiastically. Miss Nelly, the oldest person in Bridgehampton at nearly 100, sat smiling at all the activity. 

Early, worn editions of Organic Gardening magazine crowded the coffee table. One afternoon, I leafed through an issue with a photo of onions on the cover. An article about toxic bug sprays caught my attention. I had sold some bug spray that morning in the hardware store. I didn’t know it was harmful. 

Hal’s organic garden bloomed on a triangle of Bridgehampton loam dividing Mecox Road and Job’s Lane. It was the corner of a field that belonged to his good farmer friend Gurden Ludlow. Hal’s colorful crops caught the attention of passers-by. This was certainly not a potato or corn field. Yellow, red, orange, purple, white, and green shapes punctuated by thick variegated foliage spread across the ground or stretched skyward on fences. There were tomatoes, string beans, onions, carrots, zucchini, and more, a vivid display of robust health.

Flo was captain of the kitchen. Her uniform: shorts, shirt, blue Keds sneakers, and cotton apron. Huge canning and soup pots simmered on the stove. She orbited the galley kitchen from refrigerator to stove to sink, processing the day’s harvest. When visitors stopped in, she would pause and offer something fresh, like homemade bread or a piece of pie warm from the oven. 

A photo of Grandpa Williams sums up summer at his son’s house. He dons a striped chef’s apron and stands before the back door, leathery wrinkles creasing his beaming face and a bundle of zucchini in his arms. Behind him, on the back stoop, are buckets of organic tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and onions, the main ingredients for Flo’s gazpacho.

One August evening as I entered the kitchen, Flo handed me a large soup tureen. “Please set that at Hal’s place, would you, Hilly?” she asked. The vessel was cold. The soups I knew were always piping hot. I was confused but did as asked, without question. 

Eight of us gathered around the table: Grandpa Williams, Hal, Flo, Loie, her brothers, a girlfriend, and me. Hal said grace and ladled the cold soup. I examined my serving. It was full of raw tomatoes, peppers, onions, garlic, and cucumbers in tomato juice. Chopped chives and parsley garnished the surface. There were tiny oil dots floating in and among the herbs. It looked mysterious and inviting. A sweet vinegar aroma galvanized my taste buds. 

Flo dipped her spoon into the bowl, and then I did the same. A sweet, spicy, fresh flavor embraced my taste buds. The crunch of cucumbers and peppers followed, with the herbs and hint of hot pepper punctuating each swallow. It was a garden in a bowl! And it was one of the most delicious things I had ever tried.

Now, over 40 years later, I make the “garden in a bowl” for the thousandth time. Tomatoes must be slightly overripe and the cucumbers crisp, right off the vine. Flo’s recipe calls for green peppers, but I use a mix of green, yellow, and red. Yellow onions are best, but any will do. My newest addition is milky kernels of barely cooked corn for a sweet crunch.

Like Flo, I never use a food processor to chop the ingredients. Hand chopping slows me down for a time, and that in itself is gratifying. The cucumbers, peppers, garlic, and onions are cut into bite-size pieces and added to the bowl. After the tomatoes cool, the skins slip right off. I remove their seeds if I’m feeling especially patient. A flexible cutting pad is good for the tomatoes. Holding it cone-shaped makes it easy to pour all bits of them and their juice right into the bowl. 

Next, I take a short break to head into the garden for chives and parsley. Along the way, I usually get distracted by other vegetables and herbs calling for picking, weeding, or trimming: zucchini growing large, borage taking over, nasturtiums cascading into beans and Swiss chard, a vole hole near the carrots, and on and on. But I stay focused on my gazpacho goals.

Back in the kitchen, I chop the herbs, inhaling the clean scent. Flo added red wine vinegar. My choice is balsamic. Top-grade olive oil balances the vinegar. Last, vegetable juice, salt, and a dash of hot sauce or cayenne. 

Every time, my husband responds to the first spoonful with “This is the best batch you ever made.”

Recently, Loie called from her home in Boston.

“I am making the gazpacho,” I chirped, setting the phone on speaker so I could finish chopping cucumbers.

“Ah, Hilly, I love the gazpacho.”

Hilary Herrick Woodward lives and gardens organically in Southampton.