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Sunshine Citrus Avocado Salad — The Light That Came Through the Window

Twelve weeks. The scan. The held breath. The same hospital, the same waiting room, the same fear that lives in the space between the wand touching the belly and the sound appearing on the screen.

Sound appeared. Heartbeat. Strong. Fast. On track. The baby is healthy. Measuring correctly. Everything looks good.

Megan cried. I cried. The technician smiled the professional smile of someone who sees this miracle every day and never tires of it. The doctor said, "Everything is progressing beautifully." Beautifully. The word hung in the room like a bell.

We drove home. We sat at the kitchen table. We looked at the new ultrasound photo — bigger now, clearer, a shape that is becoming a person. Head. Body. Hands. Feet. A human. Our human.

"We can tell them," Megan said. "Sunday," I said. Sunday dinner. At our house. Both families. The announcement that has been waiting for twelve weeks, that has been waiting for two years, that has been waiting since a Tuesday morning when two lines appeared and disappeared and appeared again.

I went to the nursery. The room that was painted sage green three months ago. The room with the crib and the changing table and the mobile with the stars. The room that has been waiting. I stood in the doorway and said, out loud, to no one, "You're coming." The room was quiet. The light came through the window. You're coming. This time, you're really coming.

Made scrambled eggs. The meal that means: something has changed. The meal that marks every seismic shift in my life. Eggs. Butter. Salt. Simple. True. Enough.

The scrambled eggs were for us — quiet, private, just Megan and me at the kitchen table holding something too big for words. But Sunday was going to be different. Sunday was for both families, for the room full of people we’d been keeping this secret from for three months, and I wanted the table to look like what we were feeling: bright, abundant, alive. This salad — all citrus and green and gold — felt exactly right for the moment we’d been waiting two years to say out loud.

Sunshine Citrus Avocado Salad

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

  • 5 oz baby arugula or mixed greens
  • 2 navel oranges, peeled and segmented
  • 1 large grapefruit, peeled and segmented
  • 1 large ripe avocado, pitted and sliced
  • 1/4 red onion, very thinly sliced
  • 2 tablespoons fresh mint leaves, torn
  • 2 tablespoons roasted pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
  • For the dressing:
  • 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
  • 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
  • 1 teaspoon honey or maple syrup
  • 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
  • Pinch of freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

  1. Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the olive oil, orange juice, lemon juice, honey, salt, and pepper until emulsified. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Set aside.
  2. Prepare the citrus. Using a sharp knife, cut away the peel and pith from the oranges and grapefruit, then slice between the membranes to release clean segments. Pat gently dry with a paper towel to prevent the salad from becoming watery.
  3. Prep the avocado. Halve, pit, and peel the avocado, then cut into 1/4-inch slices. If making ahead, toss lightly with a squeeze of lemon juice to prevent browning.
  4. Assemble the salad. Spread the arugula or greens on a large serving platter. Arrange the citrus segments and avocado slices over the top. Scatter the red onion, torn mint, and pepitas evenly across the salad.
  5. Dress and serve. Drizzle the dressing over the salad just before serving. Serve immediately while the greens are fresh and the avocado is bright.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 225 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 17g | Carbs: 19g | Fiber: 6g | Sodium: 155mg

Jake Kowalski
About the cook who shared this
Jake Kowalski
Week 517 of Jake’s 30-year story · Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Jake is a twenty-nine-year-old brewery worker, newlywed, and proud Polish-American from Milwaukee's Bay View neighborhood. He didn't start cooking until his grandmother Babcia Helen passed away and left behind a stack of grease-stained recipe cards. Now he makes pierogi from scratch, smokes meats on a balcony smoker his landlord pretends not to notice, and writes for guys who want to cook good food but don't know a roux from a rub.

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