By Summer begins and the world opens and the grandchildren are mine for portions of every week — I drive to White Plains on Tuesdays and Thursdays to help Jennifer with the mornings, and the mornings are chaos and I love the chaos, I crave the chaos, I am a woman who lived in a classroom full of teenagers for forty-three years and who now lives in a quiet house and who needs the noise of children the way the garden needs rain: regularly, predictably, abundantly.
Noah turned four this month and has entered the phase of childhood where every sentence begins with "why" and every answer generates another "why" and the chain of whys is infinite and exhausting and wonderful, because a four-year-old who asks why is a four-year-old who is paying attention, and paying attention is the first step toward everything. Why is the sky blue? Why do we eat challah on Friday? Why does Grandpa live in a different house? The last question — asked on Tuesday, in the car, on the way to the farm stand — was the one that stopped me. I said, "Because Grandpa needs special helpers to take care of him." Noah said, "But you're his helper." I said, "I am. I help him every day. I bring him food." Noah said, "Do you bring him soup?" I said, "Every Tuesday." Noah said, "Good. Soup helps." He is four. He understands the fundamental principle. Soup helps.
I made a cold avocado soup — a new recipe, something I found in a magazine, pureed avocado with lime and cilantro and yogurt, served cold. It is not Ashkenazi. It is not Sylvia. It is not any tradition I belong to. It is new, and the newness is deliberate, because the kitchen must not become a museum, the kitchen must continue to discover, and the discovery is the sign that I am still alive, still curious, still a woman who can look at an avocado and think: soup. Sylvia would not have recognized this soup. But Sylvia would have tasted it, and she would have said "it's different," and she would have meant: I am paying attention to what you're doing, and the doing is interesting, even if it's not mine.
That afternoon, after dropping Noah back with Jennifer and driving the long way home with the windows down, I wanted to stay inside the feeling of the day — the farm stand, the soup questions, the particular brightness of a Tuesday in June. The cold avocado soup was already made and waiting for Marvin, but I wanted something just for me, something just as cold and just as new: something that said summer and alive and still discovering. This melon margarita — nothing I would have made ten years ago, nothing Sylvia would have recognized — was exactly that.
Melon Margarita
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 10 min | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 cups cantaloupe or honeydew melon, cubed and chilled
- 1/2 cup silver tequila
- 1/4 cup triple sec or orange liqueur
- 1/4 cup fresh lime juice (about 3 limes)
- 2 tablespoons honey or agave syrup, to taste
- 2 cups ice cubes, plus more for serving
- Coarse salt or Tajin, for rimming glasses
- Lime wedges and fresh mint, for garnish
Instructions
- Rim the glasses. Run a lime wedge around the rim of four rocks or margarita glasses. Dip each rim into a shallow plate of coarse salt or Tajin and set aside.
- Blend the melon base. Add the chilled melon cubes to a blender and puree until completely smooth, about 30 seconds. If the melon has a lot of natural juice, no additional liquid is needed.
- Add the remaining ingredients. Pour in the tequila, triple sec, fresh lime juice, and honey or agave. Add 2 cups of ice. Blend on high until the mixture is smooth and slushy, about 45 seconds.
- Taste and adjust. Taste the mixture and add more honey for sweetness or more lime juice for brightness, blending briefly to combine.
- Serve immediately. Fill the rimmed glasses with fresh ice, pour the margarita over the top, and garnish each glass with a lime wedge and a small sprig of fresh mint. Serve cold.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 195 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 310mg