Italian Tomato Fritters

February. The mainland states are buried. We had rain Tuesday. Caleb had baseball practice Tuesday and Thursday. I drove.

Caleb, 7, wants to be a firefighter still. Has not deviated. Hazel, 3, chaos incarnate. Put a peanut butter sandwich in the DVD player Wednesday. Showed zero remorse.

Chicken and rice. The military spouse standard. One pan. Twenty-minute cleanup.

Megan called from D.C.. We talked twenty minutes. The relationship is better now than it was.

I made a casserole because I always make a casserole.

Reading another military memoir at night. They make Ryan tense. They steady me. We negotiate. He doesn't ask what I'm reading. I don't tell him. The arrangement works.

The military spouses' Facebook group had a small drama this week. Two women fighting over the playgroup schedule. I muted notifications and cooked dinner. Some weeks the group is the lifeline. Some weeks it is the source of unnecessary stress. The skill is knowing which week you're in.

Ryan came home tired Wednesday. He showered, ate, sat on the couch, was asleep by eight. Standard for a Marine who has been up since four-thirty for PT and stayed late for a brief. The schedule is the schedule. The body adapts because it has to.

I went to the commissary Saturday morning. Got the grocery haul under sixty bucks for the week, which is a small victory. The cashier knows me. We talked about her grandkids while she scanned the chicken thighs and the family-size box of pasta. Small-town energy on a Marine base in California.

My therapy session was Tuesday. We talked about the deployment cycle and the way the body holds dread and the ways the body holds it. The hour passed. The work continues. I have been doing this work for years. The work pays.

Hazel and I had a hard moment Tuesday at homework time. She is in a season of testing limits. We worked through it. We always do. She is mine.

Caleb watched the firefighters at a school visit Wednesday and came home buzzing. He is going to be one. I have known this since he was four. Some kids tell you who they are early.

Base housing is base housing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige expectations. The dryer venting is in a stupid place. The kitchen has no dishwasher. We make it work.

The kitchen counter has a chip in it from someone before us. Some military housing thing. I have stopped asking what. The chip is fine. The whole kitchen is provisional. We are renting from Uncle Sam.

Dad called. He has been gardening. He is sending zucchini updates again. The PTSD is managed. He talks more than he used to. He is becoming his own version of healed, which I did not think was possible at fourteen.

Ryan's friends came over Friday for a beer. I made wings and chips. They demolished both. Standard Marine appetite — they eat like they are still on rations. The kitchen looked like a battlefield by the end. They cleaned up. Marines clean up. Donna would have been impressed.

The PCS rumors are starting again. The official orders will come in a few months. We could move. We could stay. The waiting is the worst part. Three years here and I have learned to not put down deep roots in any military town. Nineteen-year-old me would not have believed how good I have gotten at packing.

I sat at the kitchen table Tuesday night writing in the journal. Volume 10 now. The handwriting has not gotten neater. The journals are a record of the life I am living, in the moment, in tiny script that I will look back on someday and not be able to read. That is okay. The writing was the thing.

I said it myself — I make a casserole because I always make a casserole. But the week I described above was the kind of week where a woman needs at least one decision that is entirely her own, and this time it was fritters. The kitchen has a chip in the counter and no dishwasher and the dryer vent is in a stupid place, and none of that stopped me from frying something golden in a pan on a Tuesday like I had all the time in the world. Italian Tomato Fritters: crisp edges, fresh herbs, done in thirty-five minutes, and nobody put one in a DVD player.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 large ripe tomatoes, diced (about 2 cups)
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, beaten
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped
1 tablespoon fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for draining
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
3–4 tablespoons olive oil, for frying

Instructions

Drain the tomatoes. Place diced tomatoes in a colander, sprinkle lightly with salt, and let drain for 10 minutes. Press gently with a paper towel to remove excess moisture — this keeps the fritters from falling apart in the pan.
Make the batter. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, eggs, Parmesan, garlic, basil, parsley, 1/2 teaspoon salt, black pepper, and red pepper flakes until a thick batter forms.
Fold in the tomatoes. Add the drained tomatoes to the batter and fold gently until evenly combined. The batter will be thick and scoopable.
Heat the oil. Warm 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat until shimmering. Add more oil as needed between batches.
Fry the fritters. Drop heaping spoonfuls of batter (about 2 tablespoons each) into the hot oil and flatten slightly with the back of the spoon. Cook 3–4 minutes per side until deep golden brown and cooked through. Work in batches; don’t crowd the pan.
Drain and serve. Transfer fritters to a paper-towel-lined plate. Serve hot, optionally with a dollop of crème fraîche or a squeeze of lemon.

Nutrition (per serving)

Italian Tomato Fritters — Because I Make a Casserole Until I Don’t