By September approaches. The calendar turns. Three and a half years of this blog. Three and a half years of standing at the stove and telling you what I see: a life being built, a table being set, a family forming from the ingredients of grief and love and the stubborn refusal to let the kitchen go dark.
Labor Day cookout: all seven of us (me, Derek, Marcus, Jasmine, Isaiah, Zoe, Curtis). At my townhouse. The full production: ribs, burgers, corn, my potato salad, Jasmine's cornbread, Derek's contribution (a fruit salad that was ambitious and successful and that I applauded with the enthusiasm of a parent watching a toddler take its first steps, because Derek making a good fruit salad is a culinary achievement that deserves recognition). Curtis brought nothing because Curtis brings himself and himself is enough.
The kids played basketball in the driveway — all four of them. Marcus and Isaiah on one team, Jasmine and Zoe on the other. They argued about fouls. They laughed about airballs. They were kids playing basketball in a driveway on Labor Day and they didn't look like a blended family or a complicated arrangement or a project being managed — they looked like siblings. The word sat in my chest like a warm stone. Siblings. Not yet. But close. Close enough to see. Close enough to taste.
Curtis pulled me aside while Derek was at the grill. He said, "This is a good one." He said it about Derek, but he meant it about everything — the cookout, the kids, the driveway basketball, the life I'm building. He said, "Your mama would—" He stopped. He didn't finish. He didn't need to. I know what Mama would. Mama would be in the kitchen. Mama would be making more food. Mama would be saying "more garlic" and "is that boy eating enough" and "Tamika, your rolls are still denser than mine." Mama would be here. She isn't. But everything she built — everything she seasoned and stirred and served — is in this yard, at this table, in these children, in this man, in me. She's here. She's always here.
Every cookout needs at least one dish that doesn’t ask anything of you — no grill time, no oven, no drama — just something cool and clean that sits beside the ribs and the potato salad and quietly does its job. This cucumber dill salad has been on my cookout table for years, long before the blended chaos and the driveway basketball and Derek’s hard-won fruit salad victory. Mama used to say a good spread always had something refreshing to cut through the richness, and she was right about everything, so I’m not about to argue now. Make this the night before, let it chill, and let it be the easy thing while everything else is beautiful and loud.
Cucumber Dill Salad
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min (plus 1 hr chilling) | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 3 medium cucumbers, thinly sliced
- 1/2 small red onion, thinly sliced
- 1/3 cup sour cream
- 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
- 1 tablespoon fresh dill, chopped (or 1 teaspoon dried dill)
- 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Instructions
- Prep the cucumbers. Wash and thinly slice the cucumbers (peel if desired, or leave skin on for color and texture). Place in a large mixing bowl with the sliced red onion.
- Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the sour cream, white wine vinegar, dill, sugar, garlic powder, salt, and pepper until smooth and well combined.
- Combine. Pour the dressing over the cucumbers and onion. Toss gently until everything is evenly coated.
- Chill. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving to allow the flavors to meld. Stir once more before serving and adjust salt to taste.
- Serve. Transfer to a serving dish and garnish with a few extra sprigs of fresh dill if desired. Serve cold alongside ribs, burgers, or anything coming off the grill.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 55 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 6g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 210mg