By Hot. Brutal. 102 on Wednesday, 105 on Thursday, the kind of heat that makes you question why anyone settled in a high desert valley and then remember: the rivers, the mountains, the autumn that will come like a reward for surviving this. Idaho summers are a test. I've been taking it for thirty-three years and I still don't love the answer key.
The kids went to Scott's for the weekend. His actual birthday weekend with Mason. I packed the bags, drove to Horseshoe Bend, did the handoff. It's getting easier — not emotionally, but mechanically. The motions are smoother. The smile is more natural. The drive home is still quiet and the house is still empty but I'm learning to fill the emptiness with things other than grief: a book, a bath, a phone call with Brett, a walk with Hank in the golden hour when the heat breaks and the world is tolerable again.
I spent Saturday at the farmers market and the library and the hardware store, buying tomato cages and basil plants and a new hose nozzle, because I am starting a garden. A small one — just a raised bed in the backyard, four by eight feet, nothing like Mom's epic production in Twin Falls. But something. Something I plant and tend and harvest. Something alive that I am responsible for. I am a ranch girl. I grew up with my hands in dirt. And somewhere between college and marriage and children and cancer, I stopped putting my hands in dirt, and I miss it the way you miss a language you used to speak.
I planted tomatoes, basil, peppers, and zucchini. Mason helped when he got home Sunday — he dug holes with the focus of an archaeologist and placed each plant with the precision of a surgeon and watered everything with the enthusiasm of a fireman (unfortunate metaphor, but accurate). Lily planted a seed (lettuce) upside down and was told gently that it didn't matter (it does) and walked away to harass Hank. The garden is small and imperfect and it's ours.
I made caprese salad with the first tomatoes from the farmers market — not mine, not yet, but the idea of mine. Thick slices of tomato, fresh mozzarella, basil from the plant I just put in the ground (I pulled two leaves, guilty as sin, like robbing a baby). Olive oil, salt, pepper. It's not ranch food. Diane would look at it and say, "Where's the meat?" But it tastes like summer and hope and the beginning of something, and that is a flavor I am learning to recognize.
So here it is — the salad I made with farmers market tomatoes and two stolen basil leaves from a plant that’s been in the ground for approximately forty-eight hours. It’s barely a recipe, honestly. It’s more of an arrangement, a prayer, a plate that says I am starting something. But if you’ve got good tomatoes and decent mozzarella and a basil plant you haven’t killed yet, this is the thing to make when it’s 105 degrees and you need dinner to feel like a gift instead of a chore.
Garden Caprese Salad
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 3 large ripe tomatoes, cut into 1/4-inch thick slices
- 8 ounces fresh mozzarella, cut into 1/4-inch thick slices
- 1/3 cup fresh basil leaves, loosely packed
- 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
- 1 tablespoon balsamic glaze (optional)
- Flaky sea salt, to taste
- Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste
Instructions
- Slice the tomatoes and mozzarella. Cut both into thick slices, roughly 1/4-inch each. You want them substantial — this isn’t a dainty appetizer, it’s dinner on a hot night.
- Arrange the platter. Alternate tomato and mozzarella slices on a serving plate, overlapping them slightly. Tuck fresh basil leaves between and over the slices.
- Dress it simply. Drizzle the extra virgin olive oil evenly over the top. Add the balsamic glaze if using.
- Season generously. Sprinkle with flaky sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Serve immediately at room temperature — don’t refrigerate it. Cold kills the flavor of good tomatoes.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 230 | Protein: 12g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 6g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 320mg