what remains

As we hurtled back down the freeway towards home, pine trees swooping by the windows in broad streaks of brown and green, the sky grew progressively more sickly, a dully colored gray-brown laid down in thicker and thicker layers as we descended in elevation and inched closer to the valley called home. The smoke settled in great sheets over the sky and everything else, blotting out the sun, shrouding the landscape and filling me with an unsettling feeling of dread. It-the smoke and my dread- only intensified as our phones, coming back into signal for the first time in a week, shrilly dinged with an alarming cadence. What was wrong? I wondered. I thumbed through the incoming messages, reading them aloud to my husband, who listened tensely and sucked in his breath as I recounted multiple people’s accounts stating, in various degrees of concern, that his mother had taken a turn for the worse. Also, it turned out, wildfires had broken out like a thick rash up and down our state, searing and obliterating places, homes, lives. Places that I held dear in my heart, places I had visited with a pilgrimage-like regularity since childhood, suddenly rendered unfamiliar, scorched and barren, smudged out in charcoal. I shifted in my seat, and realized that I had been unconsciously holding my breath, my body tensing as it prepared to accept another layer of grief onto an already thickly spread canvas; an impasto painting I did not care to look at. To occupy this space between the current reality and our previous, unaware one was jarring. The comfortable certainty of returning home, returning to things securely in their place as we had left them had been sheared off from beneath our feet, leaving us peering into the murky depths below. In the backseat, the children solemnly regarded the landscape, which was curiously both familiar and alien at the same time, well known places rendered new by smoke blurring out edges, settling in spectral pools amongst the curving dips of the hills.

We pulled quietly into our usual pit stop at an orchard fruit stand off the choked freeway, to use the bathroom and pick up our annual flat of O’Henry peaches. The peaches now seemed a bit irrelevant, but habit, coupled with a desire to have something be as it usually was, compelled us. The hot air, thick and fetid with smoke, pressed through our masks as we got out of the car. People milled about among the paths created by the giant square bins abundantly filled with apples, pears, peaches. A sharp faced woman, clearly unfettered by the signs urging not to touch things you did not mean to buy, held apples up one by one, ruthlessly scrutinizing them from behind her thick glasses. At the checkout counter stood a plastic bucket holding water and bundles of sunflowers, whose smears of yellow seemed rudely bright against the drab sky. We quickly left and rejoined the hum of the freeway, my husband balancing the flat of peaches on his knees as he texted and called and assessed, the severity of what he was learning written clearly across his forehead in deep furrows.

Coming down the last stretch of road toward home, we finally pulled into our garage and emerged from the car, limbs and minds tangled up from the long ride. The air inside the house was heavy with the staleness of vacancy and stagnation. I ventured into the backyard to water the garden and saw that there was ash everywhere, a grisly veil encompassing the ground and the trees and the vegetables and the bistro table and the bottom of the pool.  The sun through the smoke cast a sickly orange light. I set to quickly pick whatever was ripe, the thick hot air pressing heavily on my lungs and eyes with a stinging insistency. The cheery reds and jaunty golds of the tomatoes, with their sprinkling of dull gray ash was slightly disturbing. I thought of the way a child’s warm, rosy cheek looks next to that of very elderly person, that of something eminently alive next to something close to death. I went inside and washed my harvest and my hands, twice, as if that would remove the feeling of something foreign in a place I wished most of all to feel the same.

The ash, along with the ensuing smoke and heat proved to be the way my summer garden has met an untimely death this year. Yet, as always in nature, there are some survivors, some bits still standing, something with which to make a way forward. The Sun Gold cherry tomatoes, a few cucumbers, and the basil are still happily chugging on. Food is always a place I can find home, can find stability, no matter where or when or what is swirling outside or inside. Alongside our long term, stable favorites, we have been making this salad to accompany dinner most days of the week. It is quite simple in order to highlight the pure, elemental flavors, to allow you to really taste and savor each ingredient. To remember to take pleasure in what you can, what you still have. An ode to what remains.

tomato, cucumber, and red onion salad with basil

Here I’ve used Sun Gold cherry tomatoes from our garden, but any ripe summer tomatoes will work- if you’re using large ones, just chop or slice them. When I make it with sliced tomatoes, I slice the cucumber into thin rounds instead of the cubes you see here for textural harmony. Since the ingredients are so simple here, they all need to be very flavorful for good results. If you find yourself with not as flavorful produce, not to worry, simply create a more intentional vinaigrette, perhaps something like: 1 spoon red wine vinegar, 2 spoons olive oil, a dab of dijon mustard, salt and pepper, whisked up vigorously and tossed with the ingredients. I’ve left off amounts, because you can really make this as large or small as you like, it’s more of a general idea than a recipe.

a small red onion
white vinegar
tomatoes
cucumber
a handful of basil
olive oil
salt + pepper

Slice the onion into thin half moons, and place into a small jar or bowl. Splash a good glug of vinegar on top, and pour over enough cool or cold water to just cover them. Give it a little mix or swirl and place them in the fridge for at least 15 minutes. The point of this is to remove any excess sharpness from the onion, essentially a slight pickle, which renders them into more of a vegetable than a condiment.

Meanwhile, slice your tomatoes and cucumber- if I’m using cherry tomatoes, I like to cube the cucumber and if I'm slicing larger tomatoes, I slice the cucumber into thin rounds. I find it more harmonious when components are around the same size. Arrange them on a plate or platter.

After the 15 minutes (or more) are up, drain the onions and scatter them over the platter. Tear the basil leaves into pieces on top. Drizzle over olive oil to your taste, and season well with salt and pepper. If your tomatoes are quite sweet, you may like to add a drizzle of red wine vinegar or lemon juice to bring enough acidity. Toss well and serve. We enjoy having some crusty bread on hand to mop up the delicious tomatoey- oily juices.