Marinated Italian Salad

Marcus graduates from Morehouse College with a degree in psychology. Tamika, Derek, Curtis (in wheelchair), and Jasmine attend. Terrell is there too. Marcus hugs both Tamika and Derek on stage, then shakes Terrell's hand. Tamika finally makes peace w

I drove to the Walmart on Camp Creek Saturday morning. The kind of grocery run that takes two hours because you run into three people you know. Sister Patrice caught me in the produce. We talked about her grandbaby for fifteen minutes.

Darnell sent a photo from Clarksville. The garden is producing. He grew tomatoes the size of softballs. I sent him back a photo of my sweet potato casserole. We are competitive about food now in our middle age.

Sunday service at New Birth this morning. The choir sang. I sang soprano in the second alto row. Pastor preached about Naomi and Ruth. The congregation said amen. I said amen.

Tuesday evening I sat at the kitchen table with my composition notebook and worked on the cookbook. From Brenda's Kitchen — that's the working title. I cannot write the introduction without crying yet.

The blood pressure check was Wednesday. The numbers were borderline. The doctor wants me to walk more. I am walking more.

Daddy sat in his chair after dinner watching the news. He fell asleep before the third quarter. Standard.

The kids were home for the weekend. The house was loud the way it should be.

I went to the cemetery Saturday morning. Brenda's grave is on the hill at South-View. Curtis still goes most Sundays. I left a small bouquet of magnolias.

I had a hard counseling case at school this week. A seventh-grade girl whose mama lost her job. We talked. I gave her my number. I told her she could call.

Thursday I made cornbread for a sister at church whose husband had surgery. I dropped it off at the hospital. She cried at the door. I told her, eat the cornbread, baby. The food is the saying.

The neighbors had a Friday cookout this week. I brought my mac and cheese. They have come to expect this. I have come to expect this. The block is the block.

Andre called from LA. He told the Kevin Hart story again. Twenty-some years and that boy is still telling that story. Everyone in this family is going to hear about Kevin Hart at our funerals.

I made a casserole for the church potluck. The pan came back empty. That is the only review I trust.

Miss Ernestine called Tuesday. She's ninety-something and sharp as ever. She told me my potato salad still needs more mustard.

Saturday morning I had Set the Table at the Cascade Heights center. Twelve young women. We did baked chicken. One of them — Imani, sixteen — was so afraid of seasoning that she barely shook the salt. I stood next to her and put my hand over hers and said, baby, you cannot be afraid of food. We seasoned the chicken. The chicken came out right. She glowed.

I read for an hour Sunday night before bed. Some novel about a Black woman in 1960s Alabama. Mama would have liked it.

Derek and I had date night Friday. Same restaurant, same booth, same enchiladas for me and carne asada for him.

Pastor preached about the prodigal son again. He preaches about that boy at least three times a year. The text is the text but every preaching is different. I cried in the second service this time. Don't ask me why.

Wednesday Bible study at the church. We read through Proverbs. The women in my row argued about whether wisdom is built or born. I said both. They agreed, sort of.

I made a casserole for the church potluck and the pan came back empty — but the dish I’ve been leaning on longest for those tables isn’t the casserole. It’s this salad. The Marinated Italian Salad goes everywhere I go: the Friday cookout on the block where the neighbors have come to expect my mac and cheese but are always glad to see this too, the Set the Table sessions where I want the young women to see that bold food doesn’t have to be complicated, the potluck trays lined up after service. You marinate it the night before, and by the time people are fixing their plates, it has had time to become something. That’s the whole lesson, right there in the bowl.

Prep Time: 20 min | Marinating Time: 1 hour (or overnight) | Total Time: 1 hour 20 min | Servings: 10

Ingredients

1 large head romaine lettuce, chopped into bite-sized pieces
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1 medium red onion, thinly sliced into half-rings
1 cup black olives, drained and sliced
1 cup pepperoncini peppers, sliced (plus 2 tablespoons of the brine)
6 oz hard salami, cut into thin strips
6 oz provolone cheese, cubed
1 cup marinated artichoke hearts, drained and quartered
1/2 cup roasted red peppers, sliced
3/4 cup Italian dressing (store-bought or homemade)
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
Salt and black pepper to taste
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan, for topping

Instructions

Build the base. In a large mixing bowl, combine the chopped romaine, cherry tomatoes, red onion, olives, and pepperoncini peppers. Toss gently to distribute evenly.
Layer in the hearty ingredients. Add the salami strips, provolone cubes, artichoke hearts, and roasted red peppers to the bowl. Fold everything together carefully so you don’t bruise the greens.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the Italian dressing, pepperoncini brine, oregano, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes until combined.
Dress and marinate. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss thoroughly until every ingredient is coated. Taste and season with salt and black pepper as needed.
Rest before serving. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or overnight for best flavor. The marinating time is what makes this dish — don’t skip it.
Finish and serve. Remove from the refrigerator, give the salad one final toss to redistribute the dressing that has settled at the bottom, and top with freshly grated Parmesan. Transfer to your serving bowl or take the whole bowl to the table. Either way, it will come back empty.

Nutrition (per serving)

Marinated Italian Salad — The Pan That Comes Back Empty