Strawberry, Avocado, and Kale Salad with Strawberry-Apple Cider Vinaigrette

Fourth of July. The real one. The one I've been building toward all week with the marinades and the lists and the breaded tenderloin waiting in the refrigerator like a promise wrapped in plastic.

Mom and Dad arrived Wednesday evening. Dad brought the strawberries — two flats, red and perfect, warm from the garden even after the drive. Mom brought cinnamon rolls because Mom brings cinnamon rolls everywhere, including to a Fourth of July celebration where nobody asked for cinnamon rolls, because Marlene Weber does not wait to be asked. She feeds. The feeding is the asking and the answering and the everything in between.

The spread: pork tenderloin sandwiches, bigger than the buns, the Iowa way. Potato salad. Baked beans — slow-cooked with brown sugar, mustard, and bacon, the kind that bubble in the pot like something volcanic and taste like summer distilled into a side dish. Corn on the cob — not our corn, not yet, the garden corn is still weeks away, but farmers' market corn from a stand in Ankeny where the man knows me by name now and saves me a dozen every week. Watermelon. And the strawberry shortcake — biscuit-style, not cake-style, because the Weber women are biscuit people and this is not negotiable. Dad's strawberries, sliced and sugared, piled on split biscuits, topped with whipped cream that I made by hand because the can stuff is fine but this is the Fourth of July and these are Roger's strawberries and they deserve real cream.

We ate in the backyard. Paper plates, plastic cups, the garden on one side and the grill on the other. Kevin grilled bratwursts for the people who wanted bratwursts in addition to everything else, because Kevin believes abundance is patriotic. Noah played saxophone on the deck — not "The Star-Spangled Banner," something jazzy and loose, a riff that sounded like summer nights and felt like a soundtrack. Emma organized the dessert table. Jack gave Roger a tour of the watermelon. Roger crouched down — slowly, carefully — and examined the melon and said, "Good shape. Good vine. You're doing it right." Jack glowed. The glow of a boy whose grandfather said he's doing it right. There is no brighter glow.

Fireworks at dusk, from the neighborhood — not professional, just the backyard kind, the Roman candles and bottle rockets that Iowa allows and common sense should probably prohibit. Jack sat next to Dad in the lawn chair and they watched the sparks and neither of them spoke because they were doing their thing, which is existing in the same space and watching something and understanding that the watching is the conversation. Marlene held my hand. She said, "This is a good Fourth." It was. It was a good Fourth.

Dad brought two flats of strawberries — warm from the garden, red all the way through, the kind that make you feel guilty slicing them because they’re already perfect. We used most of them for the shortcake, but I always set some aside, because strawberries that good deserve more than one moment. This salad has become my answer to that instinct: the strawberry vinaigrette is made from the same fruit that’s piled on top, and when the dressing comes from your father’s garden, it tastes like something more than a salad. It tasted like the whole afternoon.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

For the salad:
8 cups curly kale, stems removed, leaves torn into bite-sized pieces
1 teaspoon olive oil
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced
1 large ripe avocado, diced
1/3 cup thinly sliced red onion
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/4 cup sliced almonds, toasted
For the strawberry-apple cider vinaigrette:
1/2 cup fresh strawberries, hulled
3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/8 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Make the vinaigrette. Combine the 1/2 cup strawberries, apple cider vinegar, olive oil, honey, Dijon mustard, salt, and pepper in a blender or food processor. Blend until smooth. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed. Set aside.
Massage the kale. Place the torn kale in a large bowl. Drizzle with 1 teaspoon olive oil and sprinkle with 1/4 teaspoon salt. Using clean hands, massage the kale for 2—3 minutes until it softens slightly, darkens in color, and reduces in volume by about a third. This step is important — it makes the kale tender and far more pleasant to eat.
Toast the almonds. If not already toasted, add sliced almonds to a dry skillet over medium heat and stir frequently for 2—3 minutes until golden and fragrant. Remove from heat and let cool.
Assemble the salad. To the massaged kale, add the sliced strawberries, diced avocado, and red onion. Drizzle with about half the vinaigrette and toss gently to combine.
Finish and serve. Transfer to a serving platter or individual bowls. Top with crumbled feta and toasted almonds. Drizzle with additional vinaigrette to taste. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry, Avocado, and Kale Salad with Strawberry-Apple Cider Vinaigrette — What to Do with Dad’s Strawberries