By August approaching. Isaiah goes back to Charlotte — junior year. Zoe starts 12th grade. SENIOR YEAR. My last child starting her last year of high school. The fact sits in my chest like a stone — not heavy with grief but heavy with time. Time moves. Children move. The kitchen stays. The stove stays. The woman at the stove stays. Everything else moves.
Zoe's SCAD application is nearly complete — twelve portfolio pieces, an artist statement she wrote at the kitchen table at midnight (the family tradition of writing important things at kitchen tables in the small hours continues), and a supplementary essay about "Kitchens I've Known" that made me cry when she let me read it. She wrote: "I paint kitchens because kitchens are where my family became a family. Not in a courtroom. Not at an altar. At a table. Over cornbread. The cornbread was the ceremony. The kitchen was the church." My stepdaughter. My artist. My daughter.
Book tour: fifth stop, Charleston. Beautiful city, beautiful bookstore, forty people. I made cornbread. I read. I signed. A woman told me she'd been cooking from the book for three months and her family has started eating dinner together every night. "We didn't before," she said. "We just... ate. Separately. Your book made us sit down." That's the review. Forget the food blogger. Forget the sales numbers. A family sits down together because Mama's cornbread recipe told them to. That's the book's purpose. That's the whole purpose.
Made back-to-school taco bar — the tradition, geological at this point, unmovable. Isaiah's guacamole. Zoe's churros. Marcus sent salsa from Tuscaloosa. Jasmine sent a voice memo: "We Are the Champions" by Queen, sung in full operatic arrangement. The family laughed. Curtis ate tacos and said, "Same tacos every year." I said, "Same love every year." He said, "Hm." The "hm" was agreement.
Isaiah’s guacamole is always the first thing to disappear from our taco bar — every single year, without fail — and it reminded me that avocado and tomato together are their own kind of ceremony, as reliable and grounding as the tradition itself. When the taco bar winds down and I’m standing in the kitchen with the last of the summer tomatoes and a ripe avocado on the counter, this is what I make: something simple enough to honor the moment without overcomplicating it. It’s the same love, just on bread.
Tomato & Avocado Sandwiches
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 10 min | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 4 slices hearty whole-grain or sourdough bread, toasted
- 1 large ripe avocado, halved and pitted
- 1 large ripe tomato, thinly sliced
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1/4 teaspoon flaky sea salt, plus more to taste
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)
- 2 tablespoons fresh basil leaves, torn, or microgreens
- 1 teaspoon olive oil (optional, for drizzling)
Instructions
- Toast the bread. Toast 4 slices of bread to your preferred level of crispness. Set aside on a cutting board.
- Mash the avocado. Scoop the avocado flesh into a small bowl. Add the lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Mash with a fork until mostly smooth but still slightly chunky. Taste and adjust seasoning.
- Assemble. Spread the mashed avocado generously over two of the toasted slices. Layer the tomato slices evenly on top of the avocado, slightly overlapping.
- Finish and serve. Scatter the torn basil or microgreens over the tomatoes. Sprinkle with red pepper flakes if using, and drizzle lightly with olive oil. Top with the remaining toast slices, press gently, and serve immediately.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 340 | Protein: 9g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 38g | Fiber: 9g | Sodium: 410mg