Apple-Strawberry Spinach Salad — Light as a Shared Silence

Erik came over Saturday. We sat in the kitchen. He cried. Erik does not cry. Erik did not cry at Pappa's funeral. Erik did not cry when his wife died in 2018. Erik cried at Mamma's kitchen table because Mamma was not in it. I made him coffee. He cried for ten minutes. Then he stopped. Then we sat for another twenty minutes without talking. Then he left. The visit was perfect. The visit broke us both open in the right way. Erik called Sunday. He said he was thinking about Lars. He said he had not thought about Lars in a long time, not really thought about him, not the actual Lars, the twenty-year-old in 1979. Mamma's death has unlocked the older grief. Both of them at once. We sat on the phone for forty minutes mostly silent. Erik said: "It is too quiet over here, Linda." I said: "It is too quiet over here, too." We hung up. We were both alone in our too-quiet houses. The aloneness was, somehow, shared. Karin came from Stockholm for the funeral. She slept in the basement. She drank coffee at Mamma's table (Mamma's table is now in my dining room — Erik moved it over when we cleaned out the Fifth Street house; the Kenwood dining room now has both my dining table and Mamma's, pushed together to make a single longer table). Karin said: "It is so strange that the kitchen still smells like her." I said: "I have been baking her bread." Karin understood. I cooked Spring greens with vinaigrette this week. Mixed greens from the farmers' market, radishes, cucumber, fresh herbs. Mustard vinaigrette. Light lunch. The Damiano Center: a regular named Marlene, who has been coming for twelve years, told me her granddaughter just had a baby. She was glowing. She had a photo on her phone. The phone was old and cracked but the photo was clear: a small pink baby in a hospital blanket. Marlene said: "I am a great-grandmother now. The same as you." I said: "Welcome to the club." We hugged. The line continues, even on the hard side of the soup line. Mamma's bread pans are on the shelf where they have always been. I used the smaller one this week. The metal has worn smooth in the places her hands touched it for sixty years. The pan is, in some real sense, a sculpture of Mamma's hands. I knead the bread in the bowl Mamma used. I shape it on the counter Mamma stood at (well, mine, but identical to hers — same Formica color, same dimensions). I bake it in the pan Mamma baked in. The kitchen is the relay. The relay continues. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. I have been blogging for years now. The blog began as something to do at night when sleep would not come. The blog has become — without my fully intending it — a small congregation. The readers come back. They read the recipes. They read the parts that are not recipes. They write to me sometimes. They tell me what they cooked. They tell me about their own kitchens, their own losses, their own continued cooking. The congregation is its own form of company. It is enough.

This was the salad I made for myself the afternoon after Erik called — not because I was hungry, really, but because the kitchen needed to be in use and my hands needed something gentle to do. Mixed greens from the farmers’ market, whatever fruit was bright and cold in the refrigerator, a vinaigrette I could whisk together in the time it takes to stop crying. The Apple-Strawberry Spinach Salad is not a grief meal. It is the meal you make on the other side of grief, when the light is still thin but you are willing to eat again.

Apple-Strawberry Spinach Salad

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 6 cups fresh baby spinach, washed and dried
• 1 cup fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced
• 1 medium apple (Honeycrisp or Fuji), cored and thinly sliced
• 4 radishes, thinly sliced
• 1/4 cup thinly sliced red onion
• 1/4 cup crumbled feta cheese
• 3 tablespoons sliced almonds, toasted
• 2 tablespoons fresh mint or flat-leaf parsley leaves (optional)
• For the mustard vinaigrette:
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 1/2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1 teaspoon honey
• 1 small garlic clove, minced
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

1. Make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the olive oil, apple cider vinegar, Dijon mustard, honey, garlic, salt, and pepper until emulsified. Taste and adjust seasoning. Set aside.
2. Prepare the produce. Slice the strawberries, apple, radishes, and red onion. If preparing ahead, toss the apple slices in a small squeeze of lemon juice to prevent browning.
3. Toast the almonds. Place sliced almonds in a dry skillet over medium heat. Stir frequently for 2—3 minutes until golden and fragrant. Remove from heat and cool.
4. Assemble the salad. Arrange the spinach in a large serving bowl or on individual plates. Layer the strawberries, apple slices, radishes, and red onion over the top. Scatter the feta and toasted almonds. Add fresh herbs if using.
5. Dress and serve. Drizzle the vinaigrette over the salad just before serving. Toss gently or serve undressed with the vinaigrette alongside. Eat immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 185 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 13g | Carbs: 16g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 210mg