Marshmallow Fruit Salad

Father's Day. Daddy in his apartment downstairs. I cooked his favorite — smothered pork chops. He ate two and asked for more.

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 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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

The neighbors’ Friday cookout got me thinking about the dishes people count on you for — the ones where if you showed up without it, somebody would ask where it was before you even got through the gate. My mac and cheese has that reputation on our block, but there are nights when the grill is already loaded and what the table really needs is something cold and sweet to balance all that smoke and heat. That’s where this Marshmallow Fruit Salad comes in. It’s the kind of easy, generous thing that travels well, disappears fast, and makes people smile without any explanation required — and after a week of counseling hurting kids, dropping cornbread at the hospital, and singing soprano in the second alto row, a dish that just makes people happy felt exactly right.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min (plus 1 hr chill) | Servings: 10

Ingredients

3 cups miniature marshmallows
1 can (20 oz) crushed pineapple, well drained
1 can (15 oz) mandarin orange segments, drained
1 can (15 oz) fruit cocktail, drained
1/2 cup maraschino cherries, drained and halved
1 cup sweetened shredded coconut
1 cup sour cream
1 cup frozen whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed
1 tablespoon honey
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions

Drain the fruit. Drain crushed pineapple, mandarin oranges, and fruit cocktail thoroughly in a colander or by pressing them in a fine-mesh strainer. Pat gently with paper towels to remove as much liquid as possible so the salad stays creamy and doesn’t get watery.
Make the cream base. In a large mixing bowl, stir together the sour cream, whipped topping, honey, and vanilla extract until smooth and fully combined.
Fold in the fruit and marshmallows. Add the drained pineapple, mandarin oranges, fruit cocktail, maraschino cherries, shredded coconut, and miniature marshmallows to the cream base. Fold gently with a rubber spatula until everything is evenly coated — don’t stir too hard or the fruit will break down.
Chill before serving. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or up to overnight. The marshmallows will soften slightly into the cream and the flavors will come together. Give it one gentle stir before serving.
Serve cold. Transfer to a serving dish or bring the bowl straight to the table. Garnish with a few extra cherries or a sprinkle of coconut on top if you like. Keep chilled until the last possible minute if serving outdoors.

Nutrition (per serving)

Marshmallow Fruit Salad — The Kind of Sweet You Bring to the Block