By Memorial Day. I went to the cemeteries alone, early, in the mask, in the truck. Larry's grave first — the grass has grown over now, the mound settled, the headstone looking less new and more permanent, which is what headstones do — they transition from marker to monument, from temporary shock to permanent fact. I stood there and said, 'Dad, the world has gone crazy, but the chili is the same.' I think he would have liked that. Larry would have driven through the pandemic the way he drove through everything — steadily, without complaint, with a thermos of coffee and a CB radio and the specific endurance of a man who did not know how to stop.
Then Darla's grave in Kearney. Forty-five minutes down I-80, the road where everything has happened — Larry's death, Darla's call, twenty-two years of driving and living and carrying. Darla's headstone is weathered now, eight years of Nebraska seasons smoothing it, and I stood there and said, 'Your kids are good, Darla. They survived a pandemic at a kitchen table and they are good.' The saying is the visit. The visit is the prayer.
We grilled at home — burgers and brats, the Memorial Day standard. Dave grilled. The kids ate in the yard. Gayle did not come. Gayle has not come to anything in ten weeks, and the ten weeks feel like ten months, and the absence of Gayle at the Memorial Day picnic was a hole in the shape of a seventy-four-year-old woman in a blanket, and the hole was everywhere, and nobody mentioned it, and the not-mentioning was its own kind of memorial.
I brought Gayle a plate — a burger, potato salad, baked beans. She took it through the screen door without opening it. She said, 'How was the cemetery?' I said, 'Quiet.' She said, 'It usually is.' We almost laughed. Almost laughing is close enough.
The burger and brats were Dave’s domain, but the sides — that was where I could do something. I made this green pea salad because it’s the kind of dish that holds together, that travels well, that doesn’t fall apart when you carry it to a screen door and hand it through without being asked in. It isn’t flashy. It’s just good, and sometimes good is the whole point — especially on a day when almost laughing has to be close enough.
Green Pea Salad
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes (plus 1 hour chilling) | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 (10 oz) packages frozen peas, thawed
- 1/2 cup red onion, finely diced
- 1/2 cup sharp cheddar cheese, cubed small
- 1/2 cup bacon, cooked and crumbled (about 6 slices)
- 3/4 cup mayonnaise
- 2 tablespoons sour cream
- 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
- 1 teaspoon sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
- Salt and black pepper to taste
Instructions
- Thaw and drain. Place frozen peas in a colander and run cool water over them until fully thawed. Drain well and pat dry with a paper towel so the dressing doesn’t get watery.
- Make the dressing. In a large bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, sour cream, apple cider vinegar, sugar, and garlic powder until smooth. Season with salt and pepper.
- Combine. Add the thawed peas, red onion, cheddar cheese, and crumbled bacon to the bowl. Fold everything together gently until evenly coated with the dressing.
- Chill. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving to let the flavors come together. The salad keeps well for up to 2 days in the refrigerator.
- Serve. Give it a gentle stir before serving. Taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 265 | Protein: 8g | Fat: 19g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 380mg