Sweet-and-Sour Salad

Monsoon season arrived Wednesday like a guest who does not knock. The sky turned the color of a bruise at three in the afternoon — purple, green, gray, the desert holding its breath — and then the rain came sideways across the wash behind the house and the saguaros stood in it like old men who have seen this before and will see it again. The smell. If you have never smelled the Sonoran Desert in monsoon you have never smelled anything. Creosote and wet earth and ozone and something ancient, something the desert has been keeping in its pockets all year, waiting for the water to unlock it. I stood on the patio under the cover and watched the rain hit the smoker and steam rose from the steel like the smoker was breathing. Everything in Phoenix breathes different when the monsoon comes.

The restaurant ran light this week — monsoon afternoons chase people indoors but not toward BBQ, toward soup, toward comfort, toward the things that pair with rain. I put a green chile pozole on the special board Thursday. Not a summer dish. Not a logical choice. But the monsoon is not summer — the monsoon is the desert's intermission, the pause between acts of heat, and pozole is what my mother makes when the world needs holding. Elena's pozole. Hominy and pork and guajillo chiles and oregano and the patience of a woman who lets a pot speak when it is ready. We sold sixty-two bowls. Sixty-two people in Mesa, Arizona, in July, eating pozole because the rain told them to. The rain knows.

Sofia came home from Flagstaff camp Sunday. Taller. I swear the girl grew an inch in a week at seven thousand feet — the altitude stretched her, the mountain air pulled her upward the way it pulls the ball differently. She walked in the door with her duffel bag and her cleats and a confidence that was not there when she left. She said, "Dad, I was the fastest one there." She was not bragging. She was reporting. The girl reports facts. She gets this from Jessica, who has never bragged about anything in her life and who is the most accomplished person I know.

Saturday night I wrote chapter eight. The chapter about Roberto's diabetes diagnosis — 2018, the phone call from Elena, the drive to Maryvale, the fear in my father's eyes that he tried to hide behind "it's just sugar, mijo." The recipe: the chile-lime grilled chicken. The recipe that changed because my father's body changed. The recipe that taught me that adaptation is not compromise — adaptation is love wearing a different shirt. Eight chapters. The book is past halfway now. The monsoon comes and the words come with it.

The small Phoenix-summer-heat is the small weather-reality nine months a year. The small kitchen has the small AC running on the small continuous-cycle from May through October. The small outdoor-grilling happens at five AM on the small June-and-July weekends before the small temperature breaks 100. The small adaptation to the small desert-climate is the small lifelong-practice.

The small twenty-four-on, forty-eight-off firefighter-shift rhythm continues to be the small organizing-structure of the small Rivera-household-week. The small twenty-four-hour shift starts at the small Phoenix Fire Department Station 19 at six AM. The small forty-eight-off stretches let the small dad-work happen at home. Jessica handles the small school-pickup-and-evening-rhythm on the small on-shift days. The small partnership has held since the small kids were small.

The small backyard BBQ-pit Marcus built in 2019 continues to be the small kitchen-of-record for the small weekend-cooking. The small offset-smoker is the small precision-instrument. The small Saturday-morning brisket-trim ritual continues. The small Sunday-meat-pickup at the small Lopez Brothers Meats on West Van Buren Street is the small weekly-ingredient-source.

Chapter eight is about adaptation — about love wearing a different shirt — and that idea followed me from the page into the kitchen. The sweet-and-sour salad is not pozole. It is not brisket. But it carries the same logic the monsoon does: something sharp and bright that cuts through the heaviness, that reminds you a little contrast is not a flaw. Sofia walked in the door reporting facts like a veteran, the rain was still tapping the metal roof of the smoker, and this was exactly the dish I wanted on the table — one that holds both the sweet and the sour without asking either one to apologize.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 5 min | Total Time: 20 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

8 cups mixed salad greens (romaine, spinach, or spring mix)
1 can (11 oz) mandarin orange segments, drained
1/2 medium red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1 cup seasoned croutons
1/4 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
For the dressing:
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Toast the almonds. In a dry skillet over medium heat, spread sliced almonds in a single layer. Toast, stirring frequently, for 3—4 minutes until golden and fragrant. Transfer to a plate and let cool completely.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, combine red wine vinegar, sugar, Dijon mustard, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Whisk together, then stream in the vegetable oil while whisking until the dressing is fully emulsified. Taste and adjust salt or sugar as needed.
Prep the salad base. In a large serving bowl, combine the mixed greens, drained mandarin oranges, and sliced red onion. Toss lightly to distribute evenly.
Dress and finish. Drizzle the dressing over the salad and toss gently to coat. Top with toasted almonds, croutons, and shredded Parmesan. Serve immediately so the croutons stay crisp.

Nutrition (per serving)

Sweet-and-Sour Salad — Brightness After the Rain