Pistachio Salad — Something Cool and Simple for the Week My Knees Made Me Sit Down

The week after the boil is always quiet. The body knows what the mind won't admit, which is that standing for six hours over a pot in September is not something a seventy-one-year-old woman with two bad knees should do, and the body collects its debt on Monday morning. I woke up Tuesday — I slept through Monday, or close to it — and my left knee had swollen to the size of a grapefruit and my right one wasn't much better. Denise brought me ice packs and that look she gets, the one that is already rehearsing the speech about slowing down, and I said, "Don't start," and she didn't start, but she left the ice packs and a bottle of ibuprofen and the look stayed on her face all week like a bill she intended to present when the timing was right.

I stayed in the chair by the window most of the week. Not because I wanted to — I am not a sitting woman, I am a standing-and-doing woman — but because the knees said sit, and at seventy-one you learn to negotiate with your body instead of arguing. The garden needed tending. Robert did it. The tomatoes are coming in late this year, fat and stubborn, splitting on the vine because we got too much rain last week, and I watched him pick them through the window and told him which ones to leave and which ones to pull, which I realize makes me a woman yelling instructions from a chair, which is apparently what I am now.

Earl Jr. called Wednesday. He and Carolyn are talking about coming down for Thanksgiving, and he asked what I wanted him to bring. I said, "Yourself and an appetite." He said, "That's what you say every year." I said, "And every year I mean it." He told me Jasmine is getting close — the baby is due next month, another girl, and Jasmine is tired the way women get tired at the end, tired in their bones. I remember that tired. Four times I remember that tired. I told Earl Jr. to tell Jasmine to rest and eat and let David do the worrying. Worrying is what husbands are for.

I made tomato pie. A real one, with the late tomatoes from the garden, sliced thick and salted and layered with mayonnaise and sharp cheddar and fresh basil on a buttermilk crust. It is not a pretty dish. It is not a delicate dish. It is a dish that says, "Summer is almost over and I am going to use every tomato before it goes." I ate two slices for supper and gave the rest to Kayla when she came Thursday. The body is recovering. The knees are negotiating. The tomatoes do not wait.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small thirty-five years at the small Hodge Elementary School cafeteria are the small career-spine of Dorothy’s life. The small lunch-lady role had been the small everyday-presence for the small generation of Savannah kids. The small retirement in 2020 had been the small adjustment-period after the small thirty-five-year-tenure. The small Sunday-spread-at-the-Thunderbolt-house for the small grandkids is the small post-retirement-rhythm.

The small First African Baptist Church congregation continues to be the small social-and-spiritual home. The small Wednesday-night-prayer-meeting. The small Sunday-morning-service. The small choir Dorothy has sung in for thirty-two years. The small church-cookouts where Dorothy’s small contributions are the small expected-presence.

Earl passed in 2019 on Valentine’s Day. The small widow-life is in its small seventh year now. The small house in the small Thunderbolt-neighborhood of Savannah near the marsh continues to be the small Dorothy-residence. The small house is the small place Earl maintained and where Earl built the small raised-bed-garden. The small kitchen is the small heart of the small house.

The tomato pie was for supper, and the knees were for negotiating, but by Thursday when Kayla came and took the last of it, I found myself thinking about what I’d bring to the next church cookout — something that didn’t require standing over a stove, something cool and forgiving, something that could be made from a chair if the situation called for it. Pistachio salad is that dish. It has been on every table I have ever loved, and it asks almost nothing of the person making it, which some weeks is exactly the point.

Pistachio Salad

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes + 1 hour chilling | Servings: 10

Ingredients

• 1 package (3.4 oz) instant pistachio pudding mix
• 1 can (20 oz) crushed pineapple, undrained
• 1 container (8 oz) frozen whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed
• 2 cups miniature marshmallows
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts (optional)
• 1/2 cup maraschino cherries, halved (optional, for garnish)

Instructions

1. Combine pudding and pineapple. In a large mixing bowl, stir together the dry pistachio pudding mix and the entire can of crushed pineapple, juice included. Mix until the pudding powder is fully dissolved and the mixture begins to thicken slightly, about 1–2 minutes.
2. Fold in the whipped topping. Add the thawed whipped topping to the bowl and fold gently until fully incorporated and no white streaks remain. Do not stir too vigorously — you want to keep it light and airy.
3. Add the mix-ins. Stir in the miniature marshmallows and the chopped nuts if using. Fold until evenly distributed throughout the salad.
4. Chill before serving. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving. The salad will firm up slightly as it chills. Overnight is even better.
5. Garnish and serve. Just before serving, top with halved maraschino cherries if desired. Serve cold, straight from the refrigerator. Transfer leftovers to an airtight container and refrigerate for up to 3 days.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 210 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 36g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 190mg