By Planting day. The soil hit fifty. Jack announced it at breakfast — not with joy exactly, but with the satisfaction of a boy whose patience has been rewarded, whose waiting has yielded the thing the waiting was for. "Fifty degrees. We plant today." Saturday. The whole family. Kevin home from work. Noah willing. Emma present if not enthusiastic. Jack commanding.
We planted everything. Tomatoes — fourteen plants this year, including the Marlene cherry tomato in the center of the row, given the best position, the most sun, the spot where the soil is deepest and darkest. Jack planted it himself. He dug the hole, he set the plant, he pressed the soil around the base with both hands. He said nothing. He didn't need to. The planting was the statement. The plant was the memorial. The cherry tomato named Marlene, planted in the center of the garden, in the best soil, by the boy who loved her, is the headstone I didn't know we needed.
Green beans, peppers, corn (ten rows, the empire persists), zucchini, cucumbers, watermelon. The garden is bigger than ever — it has consumed most of the backyard, Kevin's grass reduced to a pathway between beds, and Kevin has surrendered with the grace of a man who has lost a twenty-year war to a vegetable garden and has made peace with his defeat. The garden grows. The grass shrinks. The boy who grows the garden grows. The man who grew the grass accepts it. This is the natural order.
I planted sunflowers along the back fence. The second year of sunflowers for Marlene. The same variety. The same spots. The annual planting that is the annual remembering, the flowers that will grow tall and golden and turn their faces to the sun with the same optimism that Marlene brought to everything, the optimism of a woman who planted strawberries and canned in August and said "more frosting" and believed that the growing was the point, always the point, always the reason to stay in the kitchen and the garden and the world.
Marlene planted strawberries. That line has been sitting with me since I wrote it, and when the planting was done and Kevin had gone in to wash his hands and the kids had scattered and I was standing at the back fence looking at the sunflowers I’d just put in the ground, I wanted something that tasted like her — bright and generous and unapologetically sweet. A Strawberry Riesling Wine Spritzer felt exactly right: the strawberry she would have grown, the wine she would have poured without measuring, the kind of drink you make on a Saturday when the soil is finally warm and the people you love are still, somehow, all in the same yard.
Strawberry Riesling Wine Spritzer
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 5 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced, plus extra for garnish
- 3 tablespoons granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 bottle (750 ml) Riesling, chilled
- 2 cups club soda or sparkling water, chilled
- 1 cup ice cubes
- Fresh mint sprigs, for garnish (optional)
Instructions
- Make the strawberry syrup. Combine sliced strawberries, sugar, and lemon juice in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir and cook for 4–5 minutes until the strawberries soften and release their juices and the sugar dissolves. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.
- Strain the syrup. Pour the cooled strawberry mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl or pitcher, pressing the solids gently to extract all the juice. Discard the solids or reserve them to spoon over yogurt.
- Build the pitcher. In a large pitcher, combine the strawberry syrup and the chilled Riesling. Stir gently to combine.
- Add the bubbles. Just before serving, pour in the club soda and stir once or twice — just enough to incorporate without losing the carbonation.
- Serve. Fill glasses with ice, pour the spritzer over top, and garnish each glass with a fresh strawberry slice and a sprig of mint if desired.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 135 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 8mg