By June begins. The longest days of the year. Portland stretches its evenings past nine and the light holds on as if it, too, does not want the day to end. I sit on the balcony after Miya goes to bed and watch the sky refuse to darken and think about time — how it expands in summer, how the long days feel like gifts, how every hour of light is an hour that could be spent cooking or writing or calling Sacramento.
I called Fumiko three times this week. She answered each time. Her voice was stronger — not strong, but stronger than last week, the improvement slight but measurable, the way a patient improves after a crisis. She ate miso soup every morning. She made onigiri on Wednesday. She told Ken that the daikon in his garden needed more water. The critique of Ken's gardening was the surest sign of recovery. Fumiko does not critique from her bed. Fumiko critiques from a position of authority, standing, with a bowl in hand and an opinion at the ready.
I made zaru soba for dinner — cold buckwheat noodles, the summer dish, the one that signals the turn from spring to summer the way the first cherry blossom signals the turn from winter to spring. The noodles were perfect — cooked briefly, rinsed under cold water until every strand was separate and firm, served on a bamboo mat with dipping sauce and wasabi and scallions. I ate them in the evening light and the taste was clean and pure and exactly what summer tastes like: unadorned, honest, nothing hidden.
Brian and I had a quiet week. No arguments. No distance. No particular closeness either — just the neutral coexistence that has become our default, the room temperature of a marriage that is neither warm nor cold. I am learning to live at room temperature. My therapist says room temperature is not a long-term habitable climate. I said the metaphor was getting complicated. She said, "Metaphors get complicated when feelings get complicated." I said, "Then this metaphor is very complicated." She wrote something in her notebook. I wish I could read her notebook. I suspect it says things I already know but have not yet said out loud.
That evening I kept returning to the idea of food that doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is — the way the soba was just soba, clean and separate and honest on the bamboo mat. In that spirit, I’ve been pairing those kinds of dinners with a fennel salad I come back to every June: shaved thin, dressed simply, nothing hidden. It belongs to the same family of summer food — the kind that asks very little of you and, because of that, gives back everything.
Fennel Salad
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 2 medium fennel bulbs, trimmed, fronds reserved
- 1 lemon, zested and juiced
- 3 tablespoons good olive oil
- 1/4 teaspoon flaky sea salt, plus more to taste
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/4 cup shaved Parmesan (optional)
- 2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
Instructions
- Shave the fennel. Halve each fennel bulb lengthwise through the core. Using a mandoline or a very sharp knife, slice each half crosswise as thinly as possible — nearly translucent. Place the shaved fennel in a large bowl of ice water for 5 minutes to crisp up, then drain and pat dry with a clean towel.
- Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice, lemon zest, and olive oil until emulsified. Season with salt and pepper.
- Dress and toss. Add the dried fennel to a serving bowl and pour the dressing over the top. Toss gently to coat every strand evenly.
- Finish and serve. Scatter the chopped parsley and Parmesan (if using) over the salad. Tear a small handful of the reserved fennel fronds and drop them on top. Taste, adjust salt, and serve immediately at room temperature.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 130 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 10g | Carbs: 10g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 210mg