summer requisites

a guide to living seasonally and sensually: with books, films, scents, and small rituals

hello.

the summer solstice marks the longest day of the year. it’s the season’s climax when everything has ripened, stretched, reached its peak almost to the point of being rotten. and yet, it’s built into this moment of abundance, quietly knowing that the light will now begin to wane. what blooms will soon fade and it knows that even heat has an ending. there’s a deeply gothic tension between this fullness and decline. the solstice asks you to stand inside that contradiction: to be present, to burn bright, and to begin letting go, all at once.

to live seasonally is not just to eat what’s in season or light the right candle. it’s about attuning to the mood of the world as it shifts around you. summer, despite how it's marketed, isn’t just about extroversion and expansion. it can also be a little delirious. a little lonely. it’s sweat and rot and overstimulation. it’s too much, and still, it’s sacred. summer invites a kind of softness if you let it: the urge to slow down, to rest, to notice what the light is doing at 8pm. to let yourself be porous. it’s a season that invites embodiment, not performance.

this essay is a collection of the ways i’ve been living inside summer: the books, films, meals, scents, and small rituals that are helping me stay close to the world as it is. not the curated version or the aesthetic one. just the season in its actual texture. sun-warmed. slightly ruined. sweet in a way that can’t last. consider this a small guide. i hope it brings you a little closer to your own version of midsummer.

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books

bonjour tristesse by françoise sagan
sun, sex, and self-destruction on a french riviera holiday. the teenage girl narrator is too smart for her age and too lonely to admit it. a quintessential caitlyn read. slim, and quietly devastating.

we have always lived in the castle by shirley jackson
two sisters, a crumbling house, and a town that wants to destroy them. jackson’s strangest and most seductive novel. part fairy tale, part psychological horror. claustrophobic and eerie in the best way. feels like a summer where you never leave the house and slowly go mad.

the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson
more than a ghost story. it’s about loneliness so intense it becomes unlivable. reading this in the summer makes the heat feel oppressive and the walls feel closer. jackson writes like she’s trying to gently break your mind.

rebecca by daphne du maurier
an unnamed woman marries a rich widower and moves into his estate, only to be haunted by the lingering presence of his first wife. lush, gothic, suspenseful. the sea is everywhere, and so is doubt. for when you want your summer to feel like walking through a dream you can’t quite trust.

beloved by toni morrison
a woman is haunted. literally and metaphorically by the ghost of her past. this novel is devastating, brilliant, and holy in its intensity. not a light read, but maybe one of the most important. the heat here is memory, grief, and love that won’t let go.

água viva by clarice lispector
a woman speaks directly to the reader with no plot, no names, just raw sensation. time folds in on itself. language begins to unravel. this is summer as consciousness—moist, electric, and intimate. clarice at her most hypnotic.

just kids by patti smith
an ode to youth, art, and chosen love in new york. the summer haze of 1970s chelsea hotel, where every dream feels possible and every heartbreak feels holy. read this if you're feeling lost and want to believe in art again.

franny and zooey by j.d. salinger
most of this unfolds in a single upper west side apartment, but it captures that uniquely summer-in-the-city feeling of spiritual crisis, family intensity, and existential clutter. salinger at his most philosophical and domestic.

at the existentialist café by sarah bakewell
biographical nonfiction about the major figures of existentialism: sartre, de beauvoir, camus, merleau-ponty with enough charm and clarity to make you feel like you're drinking aperitifs with them. incredibly readable and unexpectedly fun. philosophy, but make it sexy.

how to live: or a life of montaigne in one question and twenty attempts at an answer by sarah bakewell
a book about montaigne’s essays and how they shaped modern thought. but more than that. it’s about how to live well, especially when everything feels uncertain. thoughtful, warm, and gently life-altering. bring it on your slowest, quietest days.

slouching towards bethlehem by joan didion (esp. “goodbye to all that”)
technically about leaving new york, but the city pulses through every sentence. the essays here are sharp, stylish, and soaked in a kind of glamorized burnout. essential reading for anyone who has loved nyc too much and for too long.

the sea, the sea by iris murdoch
an aging theatre director retires to a seaside cottage to write his memoir, but becomes obsessed with a long-lost love. what follows is delusion, jealousy, and ego unraveling in spectacularly literary fashion. the sea is vast and wild, but so is the mind. messy and brilliant.

the count of monte cristo by alexandre dumas
a classic revenge epic that somehow feels like the most luxurious summer binge read. betrayal, transformation, escape, wealth, disguise, and justice served cold. this is your summer project book. dramatic and delicious.

swimming in the dark by tomasz jedrowski
a summer love story set in 1980s poland. lush, political, and painfully tender. feels like reading someone’s last memory of being young and in love before the world got harder.

milk fed by melissa broder
eating, fasting, desiring. a sharp, deliciously messy novel about compulsion and hunger in all forms. very much about what it means to be touched emotionally, physically, spiritually.

summer by edith wharton
a lesser-known wharton that reads like bonjour tristesse’s gothic older cousin. sensual, doomed, and unexpectedly subversive.

the summer book by tove jansson
a quiet, tender novel about a grandmother and granddaughter on a scandinavian island. slow, observational, and wise. makes you feel like you're watching light shift across a room.

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fragrances

i dedicated an entire post to summer fragrances to avoid overcrowding this letter.

candles

home fragrance is one of the most comforting ways to shift into a new season, especially when you live in a space that doesn’t look like summer. lighting a candle is a small gesture, but it changes everything. it makes the day feel more deliberate. it turns stillness into ritual. here are a few i’ve been burning lately, or just keeping nearby, because sometimes it’s enough just to know they’re there.

foin coupé – diptyque
smells like dried summer grass, clean linen, and the feeling of being barefoot in a warm field. a little nostalgic, a little strange. like a memory from someone else’s childhood.

abd el kader – trudon
sharp, herbal, and cooling. like opening a window in a hot room and letting in wind from somewhere far away. this is my go-to when the air feels too thick to think.

cyrnos – trudon
mediterranean garden at golden hour. fig trees, lavender, pine, citrus peel curling in the sun. it smells like what i want my skin to smell like after a day outside.

summer rain – byredo
soft and damp in the best way. this doesn’t scream “clean,” it whispers storm just passed. it makes everything feel a little quieter, a little more bearable.

tree house – byredo
dust, wood, and mystery. smells like someone used to live in this space and left in a hurry. perfect for late nights, candlelight, and low-volume thinking.

tomato candle – loewe
a summer essential. green, vegetal, and alive. like crushing tomato leaves in your hands. serious tomato energy.

jasmine milk – mind games
lush, creamy, and borderline narcotic. jasmine softened by warmth. this one smells like night. like something private blooming in the dark.

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films

all best watched at night, windows open, fan humming, something cold sweating in your glass.

for salt-stung nostalgia:
call me by your name (2017)
le rayon vert (1986)
bonjour tristesse (2024)
conte d’ete (1996)

for dreamgirls and strange girls:
daisies (1966)
the virgin suicides (1999)
my neighbor totoro (1988)
la collectionneuse (1967)

for hazy, heat-drunk romance:
claire’s knee (1970)
pierrot le fou (1965)
love in the afternoon (1972)
chunking express (1994)

for when time doesn’t make sense:
ocean waves (1993)
4 aventures de reinette et mirabelle (1987)
l’ami de mon amie (1987)

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small sacred acquisitions

this isn’t about consumption for the sake of it. it’s about attunement. sometimes, the right object at the right time can change your season and make your mornings quieter, your thoughts clearer, your work easier, your body more at ease. these are things i’ve brought into my life lately, slowly and on purpose.

a single linen dress that feels like a uniform
easy to throw on, light enough for heat, simple enough to disappear in. something you can wear to the farmer’s market, to your desk, to cry in, to host dinner in. obsessed with this one. this one, too. not a dress person? this is the top for you.

a candle you don’t light yet
just to have near you. to mark time. to hold presence. something that smells like memory or clarity or late summer.

a basket bag or tote that can carry both fruit and books
durable, wide-mouthed, unpretentious. it’s for groceries, yes, but also for library hauls and picnic bread and weird little plants you adopt impulsively.

an herb garden of your own
fresh basil, rosemary, or mint in a pot by the window. something to brush your fingers through when you need to come back to your body.

a proper knife
for chopping garlic. slicing fruit. making cooking feel grounded instead of chaotic. something sharp, well-balanced, and meant to last.

a small perfume oil that feels like a secret
not your “signature scent,” but something personal. maybe you only wear it at night. maybe you only wear it when you’re alone. that’s the point. (highly recommend checking out kindred black for all of your witchy apothecary fantasies)

a really good notebook and the pen you always forget to buy
for dreams, for receipts, for grief, for one-liners that come to you while you’re eating cherries. you don’t have to use it beautifully. you just have to use it.

a swimsuit for the pool or beach… if you’re into that sort of thing i guess.

a ceramic cup or glass that makes drinking water feel slightly romantic
we’re romanticizing hydration now. let it be heavy in your hand. let it make sense on your altar or next to your bed. (highly recommend checking out her page. they sell out quick!)

a paperback novel that’s a little out of print or a little out of time
something you didn’t find on a list. something that found you. carry it around half-finished for weeks. reread your favorite sentence over and over.

a lip balm you’ll actually finish
because you always need it. because it lives in your tote. because there’s something sacred about the tiny items that tether you to your body. this one is not very aesthetic. but it’s one of the best i’ve tried. if you’re looking for aesthetic, look no further.

you don’t need much. just a few good objects. things that make your days more livable. your rituals more grounded. your summer more yours.

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activities

witch-in-linen summer: a list of real things to do
not soft girl summer. not hot girl summer. this is witch-in-linen summer. it’s sweat-damp journals, bitter tea, tomatoes eaten over the sink, thunderstorms you don’t hide from, grief you don’t explain, and beauty you never apologize for. it’s quiet magic, the kind that doesn’t need to be seen. it’s a season, and a state of mind.

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I. stillness (what to do when you need grounding)

— sit with a perfume sample every day. write one sentence about how it made you feel.
— wake up before the sun and don’t do anything for at least thirty minutes. just let the day come to you.
— dry herbs in bundles with thread.
— make one pot of homemade tea with your own herbs and drink it in silence.
— press something between pages of a book you don’t plan to finish.
— reorganize your bookshelves by emotional logic: betrayal, girlhood, longing, grief.

— make a summer altar. gather objects that feel like the season: a shell, a peach pit, a dried sprig of lavender, a perfume bottle, a page from your journal. arrange them like they mean something.

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II. movement (what to do with your body)

— walk to the cemetery on the hottest day of the week with an iced drink. quiet. shaded. filled with names. bring a notebook. let memory feel heavier than the heat.
— volunteer at an animal shelter. it doesn’t have to feel profound. just show up and help.

-make breakfast like you’re living alone in a french film. something simple, sensual, and quiet: figs with honey, toast with ricotta, iced coffee with cardamom. eat it barefoot with a book open.
— swim in the sea and don’t wash your hair after. let the water stay in it.
— host an outdoor dinner party. tomatoes, salt, wine, something baked. only invite people who don’t drain you.
— pick up something strange at the farmer’s market and figure out how to cook it.
— visit new small bookstores.

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III. study (what to learn quietly)

— read a book about religion or philosophy you don’t tell anyone you’re reading.
— watch horror films when it rains. black-and-white. or foreign. or something psychological from the 70s.
— reread your old journals. underline what still feels true.
— try to remember every dream. write them down, even if they’re ugly.
— prep for autumn like it’s a class you’re auditing early. revisit your seasonal self.

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IV. observance (what to notice and archive)

— write down the first sentence you hear each morning that isn’t your own.
— eat fruit that’s just past ripe. notice how it tastes different.
— collect words you overhear that make your stomach twist. save them for something.
— keep a scent log: what the air smells like before a storm, what the library smells like at noon, what your friend’s shirt smells like when they hug you goodbye.
— track your moods by weather, not calendar.

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food

i’ve been thinking of food less as something to cook and more as something to respond to. what’s ripe and what’s leftover. everything here is either cold, salty, overcooked on purpose, or assembled in under five minutes. no recipes. no theme. just meals that make sense in the heat.

tomatoes and salt
sometimes with olive oil and bread. sometimes alone. sometimes with your fingers. always good.

roasted garlic on toast
smash until it disappears. maybe with cheese or greens. always with the warmth and the oil and the sharp sweetness.

zucchini cooked down in olive oil
until it breaks apart. let it melt. add basil. serve it with eggs, or pasta, or nothing.

soft eggs and anchovies
when you need something rich and salty that doesn’t require thinking. eat with toast or crackers or plain.

cold melon
any kind. especially at night and ideally straight from the fridge, sliced and unadorned.

stone fruit that’s gone soft
slice and serve with yogurt. or eat whole with a napkin. sweetness that tastes slightly overripe is perfect this time of year.

cold pasta with lemon and black pepper
leftovers are better than fresh. arugula optional. eat it standing at the counter with a fork.

matcha or espresso over ice
always strong. no sweetener. something to hold in your hand while the sun does too much.

focaccia or flatbread with something melted on top
grated cheese, old herbs, whatever’s around and cook it until it’s a little blistering in the oven. eat it warm or cold.

cherries while reading
no plate. just a bowl for the pits.

strawberries with nothing on them
only if they’re good. otherwise skip them. sometimes with milk for a sweet treat.

herbed yogurt or labneh with crackers
especially when it’s too hot to chew. stir in olive oil and lemon zest if you feel like it.

boiled potatoes with butter and flaky salt
cool them down. serve with mustard. or mayo. or nothing.

cold lentils with cucumbers and vinegar
filling, but still clean. pepper and herbs take it somewhere better, but aren’t required.

corn on the cob with butter and hot sauce
wrap in foil, toss on a grill or in the oven. serve with fingers and a napkin.

cucumbers sliced into a glass with rice vinegar and sesame oil
snack. side. whatever. chill first if you have time.

toast with ricotta and honey
a breakfast or a late-night dessert. serve with fruit if you want to feel intentional.

a sandwich that doesn’t try to be anything
bread, cheese, mustard. maybe something green. not pressed. not toasted. just assembled and eaten.

white beans with lemon, garlic, and olive oil
you can serve this cold and it’s still excellent. stir until it feels like a spread. top with herbs if you have them.

okay, that’s all i have for you today.

let me leave you with a jazzy summer playlist.

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i love you.

bye.

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