By The tomato seedlings went into the ground this week. Helen declared the frost risk acceptable, which in Vermont is like a general declaring the battlefield safe — it's an informed guess wrapped in optimism and defended with authority. The seedlings are small, green, and absurdly hopeful. They have no idea what Vermont weather can do to a tomato with ambitions. I admire their ignorance.
I made a salad with the first real garden lettuce — butter lettuce, radishes, chives, a simple vinaigrette of oil and vinegar and a pinch of sugar that Helen's mother used to add and that Helen adds and that I add because some recipes travel through women in this family like genes. The salad tasted like May. Crisp, light, the kind of food that makes you forget you spent five months eating root vegetables and soup.
Frost is slowing down. I notice it in the mornings — he takes longer to stand, longer to stretch, longer to decide that the day is worth participating in. He's twelve. For a border collie, twelve is the far side of the hill, looking down at whatever comes next. His eyes are still bright. His nose still works. He still chases the chipmunk by the sugarhouse, though the chase has become more ceremonial than competitive. The chipmunk seems to understand the arrangement.
I wrote a blog post about spring planting — what goes in when, why you don't rush tomatoes in Vermont, how the garden teaches patience whether you want to learn it or not. The post got more comments than usual. People seem to like the gardening ones, the ones where the recipe comes from the dirt outside rather than the grocery store inside. There's something about growing your own food that connects, even with people who've never held a trowel. Maybe especially with them.
Helen's flower beds are erupting. The daylilies are up, the coneflowers are budding, and the bees are already investigating with the urgency of investors who've heard about a good opportunity. Helen talks to the bees. I pretend not to hear. The bees pretend not to listen. We all maintain our positions and the garden grows regardless, which is how most things in Vermont work — not because anyone agrees on the method, but because the soil doesn't care about our opinions.
That butter lettuce salad with Helen’s mother’s vinaigrette got me thinking about the other garden salads that show up on our table this time of year—the ones that barely need a recipe because the ingredients do all the talking. This cucumber salad is like that. Vinegar, a little sugar, some onion, and whatever the garden hands you. It’s the kind of thing you make when the soil is finally giving back after five months of taking, and you want to taste the season without getting in its way.
Cucumber Salad with Vinegar
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes (plus 30 minutes chilling) | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 3 medium cucumbers, peeled and thinly sliced
- 1/2 medium sweet onion, thinly sliced
- 1/2 cup white vinegar
- 1/4 cup water
- 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 2 tablespoons fresh dill, chopped (or 1 teaspoon dried dill)
Instructions
- Slice the cucumbers. Peel cucumbers if desired and slice them as thin as you can manage. Thin slices absorb the dressing better and give you that crisp, almost translucent bite.
- Combine the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the white vinegar, water, sugar, salt, and pepper until the sugar dissolves completely.
- Toss everything together. Place the sliced cucumbers and onion in a large bowl. Pour the dressing over the top and toss gently to coat. Sprinkle with fresh dill.
- Chill and serve. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to let the flavors marry. Give it a gentle stir before serving. The salad keeps well in the refrigerator for up to two days, getting more flavorful as it sits.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 35 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 8g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 390mg