Shoestring Salad

Late May. Memorial Day weekend. The cookout — thirty-three people. The family. The neighbors. The expanded crew. Smokey wearing his American-flag bandana (a Lily gift from last year). The smokers running. James cooking the brisket. Tyler driving in with Jessica and the three kids. Marcus running everywhere. Jade walking now. Huy nearly four months old, sleeping through everything. Ruby seven months old, sitting up. Ava three years nine months, organizing the older kids and the dog into elaborate games.

Bill came to the cookout. He has been declining slowly the last few months — the eighty-three-year-old body slowing, the steps shorter, the voice thinner. Helen drove him. He sat in the chair next to my father's old folding chair (which I have permanently placed in the cookout area, draped with a soft blanket, a Memorial Day touch I started last year and have continued). Bill ate brisket. Bill drank his non-alcoholic beer. Bill watched the kids run. He said, "Bobby. I might not make next year." I said, "Don't say that." He said, "Bobby. I'm saying it. I've been thinking. The body is the body." I sat with him. I didn't argue. I am not in the business of arguing with elders about their bodies. I held his hand for a moment. He squeezed mine. We sat. The cookout went on around us. The kids ran. The brisket was sliced. Mai presided from the patio chair. The world held. Bill watched.

Made banh mi with the leftover brisket Tuesday. Sat on the back porch eating it. Smokey at my feet. The world cooler in the morning. Bill's words from the cookout in my head. "I might not make next year." The math. The clock. The day-by-day arithmetic of all of us who are still here. Eighteen years sober. Five grandchildren. A cookbook in the world. A mother still cooking. A father in the ground. A Bill in his lawn chair telling the truth at the right time. The whole arithmetic, sitting on a back porch with a banh mi and a dog at sunrise.

The small Houston Restaurant Supply sales-job continues to be the small post-shrimp-boat career. The small fifteen-years-on-the-Galveston-Bay shrimp-boat had ended in 2018 when the small back went out and the small bending-and-hauling work became the small impossibility. The small restaurant-supply role is the small forty-hour-week-with-benefits the small post-shrimping life rests on.

The small Vietnamese-American community in Houston is the small social-spine. The small Bellaire-area is the small Little Saigon district. The small Hong Kong City Mall is the small Saturday-grocery-trip destination. The small Vietnamese church (Our Lady of Lavang) is the small Sunday-worship. The small community is the small refugee-and-immigrant-descended network that has been Bobby’s small lifelong-place.

Bobby’s parents came over from Vietnam in 1981 as the small boat-people-refugees. The small mother (Bich) lives in the small adjacent neighborhood. The small father (Hung) passed in 2020 from COVID. The small mother-visits are the small Sunday-afternoon-rhythm. The small pho-and-com-and-banh-mi heritage continues through the small mother-cooking-with-Bobby Sunday afternoons.

The three kids are now adults. Tyler is the small oldest, Emma is the small middle, Lily is the small youngest. The small divorce in 2015 (after Bobby’s affair) had been the small marriage-end. The small kids have been the small slow-rebuild of the small father-trust. The small Linh (Bobby’s older-sister, the small pediatrician in Houston) has been the small adult-presence the small kids look to.

The small backyard grill is the small Houston-cooking-engine. The small Vietnamese-grilled-pork (thit nuong), the small grilled-shrimp (the small irony of the small ex-shrimper still grilling shrimp), the small bo nuong (grilled-beef), the small ga nuong (grilled-chicken). The small charcoal-grill in the small backyard of the small Bellaire-bungalow runs almost every weekend.

The small Houston-summer-heat-and-humidity is the small weather-reality. The small grill outdoors at five-AM-on-the-weekend trick is the small same trick the small Phoenix-firefighter Marcus uses but for different climate-reasons. The small Texas-Gulf-coast humidity is the small constant. The small Vietnamese-summer-cooking traditions are the small adaptation.

When you are feeding thirty-three people and the smoker is running and James is slicing brisket and Bill is holding your hand and telling you the truth about his body, you need at least one thing on the table that just works — something cool and crisp and ready before anyone asks. This shoestring salad was that thing. I made it the morning of the cookout while it was still quiet, put it in the refrigerator, and didn’t think about it again until Marcus started carrying bowls out to the folding tables. It held up through the whole afternoon. It held up through all of it.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 20 min (plus 30 min chill) | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 can (14 oz) shoestring potatoes
1 can (15 oz) sweet peas, drained
1 can (11 oz) sweet corn, drained
1/2 cup celery, thinly sliced
1/4 cup red onion, finely diced
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, apple cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and black pepper until smooth and well combined.
Combine the vegetables. In a large bowl, gently stir together the drained peas, drained corn, sliced celery, and diced red onion.
Dress and chill. Pour the dressing over the vegetable mixture and fold gently to coat everything evenly. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to allow flavors to come together.
Add the shoestring potatoes. Just before serving, fold in the shoestring potatoes so they retain some of their crunch. Taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed.
Serve. Transfer to a serving bowl and serve cold or at room temperature. Best eaten the day it is made.

Nutrition (per serving)

Shoestring Salad — The Side Dish at the Table Where Bill Told the Truth