Strawberry Tossed Salad

May 15, 2020. The last day. Thirty-seven years, four months, and thirteen days of carrying the United States mail, and today is the last day. I woke at 5 AM, as I have woken every workday since 1983, and for a moment I forgot — forgot that this was the last time, forgot that the alarm was a farewell, forgot that the routine that has defined my adult life was about to end. Then I remembered, and the remembering was a weight on my chest that was not sadness exactly but fullness — the fullness of a man who has done one thing for thirty-seven years and is about to stop doing it.

I put on the uniform. The same uniform I've worn for decades — the blue shirt, the blue pants, the shoes that have been resoled four times. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what I've always seen: Big E, the mailman. And today, for the last time, that's who I was.

The ceremony was small — COVID small, masked small, six-feet-apart small. My supervisor Frank and three colleagues, in the parking lot of the post office, socially distanced, and Frank gave a speech that I will remember for the rest of my life. He said: "Earl Johnson delivered more than mail. He delivered kindness." And I said, "I just walked a lot." The parking lot laughed. Rosetta, standing by the truck, cried.

I walked the route one last time. The eastern half, my half, the half that remained after the split. I touched every mailbox. Not opened — touched. My hand on the metal, feeling the warmth of the May sun on the box, saying goodbye to each one the way you say goodbye to the rooms of a house you're leaving: by being present in them one final time, by letting the walls know you were here and you cared.

Mrs. Chen on Rozelle — who was on my original route, before the split, who I'd visited on the western half and hadn't seen in two years — was standing on her porch. She'd heard it was my last day. She said, "Earl, who's going to deliver my mail?" I said, "Someone good." She said, "Not as good as you." I said, "Mrs. Chen, the mail doesn't know the difference." She said, "I do." I hugged her, COVID be damned, and she hugged me back, and the hug was thirty-seven years of mail and water bottles and conversation and the particular relationship that exists between a mailman and his people, which is a relationship that the internet cannot replicate and the modern world does not value and which is, I believe, one of the most beautiful relationships in American life.

I came home. I put the uniform in the closet. I sat in the lawn chair next to Uncle Clyde's smoker and I didn't cook and I didn't move and I didn't speak. Rosetta brought me sweet tea and sat in the other chair and we watched the afternoon turn to evening and the evening turn to dark, and the dark was the same dark it always was, but I was different in it, because I was no longer the mailman. I was just Earl. And "just Earl" had to be enough, and I didn't know yet if it was, but I was going to find out.

I didn’t cook that night, and Rosetta knew better than to ask me to. What she brought out—along with that sweet tea—was something cool and simple and sweet, a strawberry tossed salad that asked nothing of me except to eat it, which was exactly the right kind of meal for a man who’d just said goodbye to thirty-seven years. No heat, no fuss, no standing over a stove—just the taste of a warm May evening and a woman who knew what I needed before I did. If you ever find yourself at the end of something enormous and you can’t bring yourself to cook, this is the recipe you want somebody to make you.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

8 cups mixed salad greens or romaine, torn
2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced
1/2 cup red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup candied pecans or sliced almonds
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/4 cup poppy seed dressing
1 tablespoon honey (optional, to taste)
Salt and black pepper to taste

Instructions

Prep the greens. Wash and thoroughly dry the salad greens. Tear any large leaves into bite-sized pieces and place them in a large salad bowl.
Slice the strawberries. Hull the fresh strawberries and slice them about 1/4 inch thick. Set aside a few slices for garnish if desired.
Layer the salad. Add the sliced strawberries, red onion, and candied pecans or almonds over the greens. Scatter the crumbled feta cheese evenly across the top.
Dress and toss. Drizzle the poppy seed dressing over the salad. If you prefer a touch more sweetness, stir the honey into the dressing first. Toss gently until everything is lightly coated.
Season and serve. Add a pinch of salt and a few cracks of black pepper. Serve immediately while the greens are still crisp.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry Tossed Salad — The Day Rosetta Brought Something Sweet