Raspberry Sweet Tea

The Fourth of July was Saturday and I did what I have done every Fourth of July for as long as memory serves: I made too much food and dared anyone to complain about it. Ribs — spare ribs, dry-rubbed the night before with brown sugar, paprika, garlic powder, cayenne, black pepper, and a little something I don't tell people about because a woman is entitled to one secret and mine lives in a spice jar. Low and slow on Robert's grill, which Robert has finally learned to operate the way I require, which is to say: he lights it, he steps back, and he does not touch anything until I say so. Robert is a good man. A patient man. A man who has accepted that his grill is not his grill when Dorothy Henderson is in the yard.

Watermelon. From the stand on Highway 80, the old one with the hand-painted sign that has been there since I was a girl, since Hattie Pearl used to drive us out there in the station wagon with the windows down because the air conditioning was broken and was never going to be un-broken. The watermelon was perfect. Cold from the cooler, red as a sunset, sweet enough to make you close your eyes. I cut it on the porch and the juice ran down the cutting board and dripped onto the steps and the ants will feast tonight and I do not begrudge them. Everyone deserves a Fourth of July.

Michael ate watermelon for the first time with full understanding. He has had watermelon before — pureed, mashed, in small pieces monitored by Kayla's nurse supervision — but this was the first time he held a slice in both hands and bit into it and got juice on his chin and his shirt and his eyebrows, which I did not know was possible, but the boy managed it. He looked up at me with watermelon on his face and seeds on his chest and he grinned, and the grin was summer, and summer was the grin, and I thought: this is why we're here. Not the fireworks. Not the flags. This. A boy with watermelon on his face, grinning at his na-na on a porch in Savannah on the Fourth of July.

Denise brought potato salad. Kayla brought deviled eggs. Monique brought a fruit salad that was mostly whipped cream, which I did not criticize because I am growing as a person. Devon brought himself and his appetite, which is contribution enough. We sat in the yard and ate until we couldn't and then we ate more, because that is the Henderson way, and the Henderson way is the only way I know.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.

The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.

The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.

After a yard full of ribs and watermelon and deviled eggs and one fruit salad that was mostly whipped cream, what everybody needed — what Michael needed, sticky-faced and grinning — was something cold and sweet in a tall glass. Sweet tea has been on every Henderson table I can remember, and this raspberry version is the one I reach for in summer, when the heat sits on the porch and won’t move. It’s nothing complicated, which is the point: some days the food is the celebration, and the drink just has to be good enough to keep people in their seats a little longer.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes + 1 hour chilling | Servings: 8

Ingredients

4 cups water, for brewing
4 black tea bags
1 cup fresh or frozen raspberries
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup water, for the raspberry syrup
4 cups cold water
Ice, for serving
Fresh raspberries and mint sprigs, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Brew the tea. Bring 4 cups of water to a full boil in a medium saucepan. Remove from heat, add the tea bags, and let steep for 5 minutes. Remove and discard the bags — do not squeeze them, or the tea will go bitter.
Make the raspberry syrup. While the tea steeps, combine the raspberries, sugar, and 1/2 cup water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a gentle simmer, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Cook 5 minutes, pressing down on the raspberries with the back of a spoon to release the juice. Remove from heat.
Strain the syrup. Pour the raspberry mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl or measuring cup, pressing on the solids to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the seeds and pulp.
Combine in a pitcher. Pour the brewed tea into a large pitcher. Stir in the strained raspberry syrup until fully blended. Add the remaining 4 cups of cold water and stir.
Chill. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or until fully cold. Taste and stir in additional sugar if needed, 1 tablespoon at a time.
Serve. Pour over tall glasses packed with ice. Garnish with fresh raspberries and a sprig of mint if desired. Keep the pitcher in the cooler if you’re serving outside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Raspberry Sweet Tea — Something Cold and Sweet for the Yard