Roasted Cauliflower, Chickpea and Arugula Salad

July sky. The light at nine PM still warm. Sunday farmers market. Tomatoes, shiso, kabocha when in season, mushrooms in fall. The shopping list is short and exact.

Miya, 10, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told.

Shiso salad. Tomatoes from the garden, cucumber, shiso ribbons, sesame dressing. A salad that smells like summer.

I sat at the kitchen window with my tea. The garden was the garden.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

The newsletter went out Sunday morning. The opening line took an hour. The piece took five. The piece was what it needed to be.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

The shiso salad was already on the table — tomatoes from the garden, cucumber, those ribbons of green that smell like summer distilled into a leaf. But on the nights when I want something more substantial alongside it, something that can hold its own without demanding too much of me, I come back to this roasted cauliflower, chickpea, and arugula salad. It has the same quiet confidence as a well-wiped counter or a sharpened knife: nothing extra, nothing missing. Tomi was still watering the garden when I pulled it together, and by the time Mochi had settled back into her window seat, it was done.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 medium head cauliflower, cut into small florets
1 can (15 oz) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
Salt and black pepper to taste
5 oz baby arugula
1/4 cup shaved Parmesan (optional)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
1 small clove garlic, minced

Instructions

Preheat the oven. Heat oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.
Season the cauliflower and chickpeas. Pat the chickpeas dry with a paper towel. Spread the cauliflower florets and chickpeas on the prepared baking sheet. Drizzle with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and sprinkle with smoked paprika, cumin, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Toss to coat evenly in a single layer.
Roast. Roast for 28—32 minutes, tossing once halfway through, until the cauliflower is golden at the edges and the chickpeas are crisp.
Make the dressing. While the cauliflower roasts, whisk together the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, honey, and minced garlic in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper.
Assemble. Place the arugula in a large serving bowl. Add the warm roasted cauliflower and chickpeas. Drizzle with dressing and toss gently to combine. Top with shaved Parmesan if using.
Serve. Serve immediately while the roasted elements are still warm against the cool arugula.

Nutrition (per serving)

Roasted Cauliflower, Chickpea and Arugula Salad — The Salad That Smells Like Summer, Even When It Doesn’t