Strawberry Watermelon Lemonade

June. Portland opens cautiously, the way a person opens a door when they're not sure what's on the other side. The farmers market is back to something approaching normal — still masked, still distanced, but the vendors are there and the produce is there and the act of choosing vegetables in the open air feels revolutionary in a way that choosing vegetables should never have to feel. I bought the first strawberries of summer and ate one in the parking lot and the sweetness was almost painful, the way beauty is painful when you've been deprived of it.

I made ichigo daifuku — strawberry mochi, the whole strawberry wrapped in sweet bean paste wrapped in soft mochi dough. Fumiko made these in strawberry season, always, the red fruit visible through the translucent white mochi like a heart beating inside a chest. The making requires precision: the mochi must be thin enough to stretch over the strawberry without tearing, thick enough to hold shape, warm enough to be pliable, cool enough to handle. It is a lesson in calibration. Everything in my life right now is a lesson in calibration — how much truth can I say without breaking something? How much silence can I maintain without breaking myself?

Brian went back to work — partially, a few days a week, the beer industry finding its sea legs. His return to work means his departure from the apartment, and his departure from the apartment means I can breathe. Not metaphorically — literally. The breath comes easier when he is not here. The chest loosens. The jaw unclenches. The fact that my body relaxes when my husband leaves is the most honest testimony my body has ever given, and the testimony is damning.

Miya started a small outdoor play group — four children, in a backyard, the pandemic version of socialization. She ran to the other children like a prisoner released, which she essentially is — three months of quarantine at three years old is a geological age. She came home sunburned and exhausted and happy in a way I haven't seen in weeks, the deep happiness of a child who has been with other children, which is the natural habitat, the ecosystem she was built for. I am not her ecosystem. I am her mother. The distinction matters.

I wrote chapter two of the book. The chapter is about miso soup — the practice, the daily ritual, the way the soup anchors the day. I have written about miso soup for the blog a hundred times. The book version is different. The book version goes deeper, into the grief, into the anxiety, into the three AM kitchen, into the sound of the spoon stirring the miso into the broth and the way that sound is the only sound in the apartment and the silence around it is either peace or loneliness and I still cannot tell the difference and the inability to tell the difference is the honest answer to a question I have been asking for four years.

I had strawberries left over from the market — more than I needed for the daifuku, more than Miya would eat before they softened — and it felt wrong to let them go quietly in the refrigerator after everything it took to buy them. This lemonade is what I made with what remained: the strawberries blended with watermelon, lemon juice sharp enough to wake you up, cold water to carry it all. It is not a complicated drink. Calibration was already the work of the day. This was the exhale at the end of it.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and halved
4 cups seedless watermelon, cubed and seeded
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice (from about 4 to 5 lemons)
1/3 cup simple syrup, plus more to taste
3 cups cold water
Ice, for serving
Lemon slices and fresh mint, for garnish (optional)
For the simple syrup: 1/2 cup granulated sugar + 1/2 cup water

Instructions

Make the simple syrup. Combine 1/2 cup sugar and 1/2 cup water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar fully dissolves, about 3 to 4 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature before using.
Blend the fruit. Add the strawberries and watermelon to a blender. Blend on high until completely smooth, about 45 to 60 seconds.
Strain. Pour the blended fruit through a fine-mesh sieve set over a large pitcher, pressing gently with a spoon to extract all the juice. Discard the solids. You should have roughly 2 to 2 1/2 cups of fruit juice.
Combine. Add the fresh lemon juice, 1/3 cup cooled simple syrup, and 3 cups cold water to the pitcher with the fruit juice. Stir well to combine.
Taste and adjust. Sample the lemonade and adjust sweetness with additional simple syrup or tartness with a splash more lemon juice until it tastes right to you. The balance will depend on how sweet your watermelon and strawberries are.
Serve. Fill glasses with ice and pour the lemonade over. Garnish with a lemon slice and a sprig of fresh mint if desired. The lemonade keeps refrigerated, covered, for up to 2 days — stir before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry Watermelon Lemonade — The Sweetness That Almost Hurts