By April. The balcony garden is waking up — shiso seedlings pushing through, shishito peppers starting, the green onions returning from their winter dormancy with the enthusiasm of plants that have been waiting underground for months. Miya checks the garden every morning, crouching on the balcony in her pajamas, counting sprouts. "Three shiso!" she reports. "Four!" The counting is science. The counting is also hope — each sprout a vote for the future, each seedling a promise that the season will deliver.
I made spring tempura — asparagus, shiso leaves, sweet potato — the light, crispy, golden-fried celebration of early spring. The tempura batter was cold (ice water, flour, egg, barely mixed — the lumps are correct, Fumiko's card says, "do not over-mix, the lumps make the crispy") and the oil was hot and the thirty-second transformation of raw vegetable to golden crunch was, as always, the most satisfying magic in my kitchen. I love tempura. I love the speed. I love the certainty. I love the way thirty seconds in hot oil changes everything, the way a single conversation at a kitchen table changes everything, the way one phone call from a neurologist changes everything.
I visited Ken in Sacramento. Monthly trip, the routine pilgrimage. His medication is stable. The tremor is managed. He still gardens with Marco. The daikon is planted. The shiso will follow. We sat in his garden on Saturday afternoon and I pulled weeds while he directed — "Not that one. That is shiso." He was right. I almost pulled a shiso seedling. The almost-pulling was a lesson: be careful what you pull up. Some things that look like weeds are the things you planted on purpose. The lesson applies to everything and I received it as such, standing in my father's garden, holding a shiso seedling I almost killed, thinking about all the things in my life that looked like weeds and turned out to be essential.
Ken has not mentioned the book. I sent it to him two months ago. He has not mentioned reading it, not mentioned opening it, not mentioned its existence. The not-mentioning is Ken. The not-mentioning could mean anything. I will not ask. Nakamuras do not ask. We wait. We garden. We wait.
After a morning crouched on the balcony counting shiso sprouts with Miya, and a weekend in my father’s Sacramento garden being corrected — gently, firmly — about what is a weed and what is not, I wanted something that honored the garden itself without frying it. The tempura had been for the celebration; this garden salsa is for the ordinary magic of things coming up from the ground on purpose. It’s the recipe I reach for when the garden reminds me it has opinions, and I want to listen.
Garden Salsa
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 4 medium tomatoes, diced
- 1/2 medium white onion, finely diced
- 1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
- 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, or to taste
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Instructions
- Dice the tomatoes. Core and dice the tomatoes into small, even pieces. If the tomatoes are very juicy, gently squeeze out some of the excess liquid before adding to your bowl.
- Combine the vegetables. In a medium bowl, combine the diced tomatoes, onion, jalapeño, and garlic. Stir to distribute evenly.
- Season. Add the cilantro, lime juice, salt, cumin, and black pepper. Stir well to combine.
- Taste and adjust. Taste the salsa and adjust salt, lime, or heat level to your preference. Add more jalapeño for more heat, or a pinch of sugar if your tomatoes need balance.
- Rest before serving. Let the salsa sit at room temperature for at least 10 minutes before serving to allow the flavors to meld. Serve with tortilla chips or alongside grilled proteins.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 18 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 4g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 150mg