Turkey Medallions with Tomato Salad

School supply shopping. The annual ritual. The sacred, wallet-emptying, soul-testing pilgrimage to Target where you stand in an aisle that has been picked over by every other parent in Davidson County and try to find the specific brand of glue stick that the supply list demands, because apparently not all glue sticks are created equal, some glue sticks are better than other glue sticks, and the school system has opinions about adhesives that I did not know a school system could have.

Three kids. Three supply lists. Three different schools. Chloe's list is short — she's going into tenth grade, she knows what she needs, she picked out her own notebooks (black, minimalist, very mature, no Lisa Frank in sight, which makes me nostalgic for a phase she never had). Elijah's list is a mile long because first grade requires an amount of supplies that suggests they are building a small civilization from scratch: crayons (two boxes), markers (washable), pencils (Ticonderoga, and they mean it), folders (one red, one blue, one green, one yellow — Elijah was thrilled about the yellow because yellow is orange-adjacent, and I have stopped fighting this logic, I have surrendered to the orange empire, I am a subject of the orange crown).

Jayden's list. Jayden's list was the one that got me. Sixth grade. Middle school. The list included a combination lock for his locker, and I stood in the lock aisle at Target holding a Master Lock and thinking about my son having a locker, a real locker with a combination, and how that's such a small thing and also such a big thing. A locker means hallways. Hallways mean passing periods. Passing periods mean navigating a building full of kids who are all twelve and terrible and beautiful and terrified, and my boy is going to be one of them, with his combination lock and his too-big backpack and the thing inside him that I can't name and can't fix.

I asked him what color binder he wanted and he said, "I don't care," which is Jayden for "I care very much but I'm eleven and admitting preferences feels dangerous." I picked blue. He didn't object. Blue it is.

The total was $187. One hundred and eighty-seven dollars for paper and glue and folders and a lock and the promise that my children will show up on the first day with the right tools. I put it on the debit card and did not look at the receipt. I will look at the receipt later. Later, when I've recovered. Later, when the number doesn't feel like it's sitting on my chest.

Lorraine called on Tuesday and asked if I needed help with the supplies. I said no. She said, "Sarah Anne, don't be proud." I said, "Mama, I've got it." She said, "I know you've got it, but do you want $40 for the lock and the crayons?" I said yes. Because she was right — pride is expensive and crayons are $4 a box and my mother has been offering me $40 since I was sixteen and the answer has always been yes even when I say no first. That's our dance. She offers. I refuse. She offers again. I accept. We pretend the refusal mattered. It's a whole choreography.

Wednesday I took all three kids to get haircuts. Chloe got a trim — just the ends, she's growing it out, she was very specific with the stylist in a way that impressed me because I have never been specific with a stylist, I have always said "shorter" and hoped for the best. Jayden got a fade. He looked in the mirror after and almost smiled, which from Jayden is basically a standing ovation. He looked older. He looked like a sixth grader. My stomach flipped. Elijah got his standard cut and told the barber a detailed story about Gerald the Orange Fish and how Gerald lives on a refrigerator and eats magnets. The barber nodded politely. I tipped him extra for the patience.

I've been picking up extra shifts at the dental practice this month — trying to build a cushion before school starts, before the routine changes, before Jayden's new school means a new bus route and Elijah's new school means new drop-off times and Chloe's tenth grade means — I don't even know what tenth grade means yet. I just know that September is coming and September costs money. Everything costs money. But I cooked every night this week and that saved money, and saving money by cooking is the one financial strategy I've never failed at.

Thursday night: sheet pan chicken fajitas. Chicken thighs sliced thin, bell peppers (I used green because green peppers were 79 cents and red peppers were $1.50, and I am not paying a 71-cent premium for color), onions, taco seasoning from a packet, olive oil, 425 degrees for twenty minutes. Warm tortillas. Sour cream. Shredded cheese. It took thirty minutes including prep and it fed all four of us with leftovers, which I packed into Jayden's lunch on Friday because fajitas make excellent cold leftovers and I will not be taking questions.

Chloe assembled her fajita with the precision of a surgeon — each ingredient measured, placed, folded. Jayden loaded his until the tortilla couldn't close and ate it over the plate like a controlled demolition. Elijah ate the cheese and a plain tortilla. The tortilla was beige. Beige is in the orange family if you squint. I am always squinting.

After dinner, I sat at the table after the kids went to their various evening activities — Chloe on her phone, Jayden in the living room watching something, Elijah in the bathtub talking to Tony the tiger about the upcoming school year, which I could hear through the door and which was the gentlest, most heartbreaking monologue: "Tony, first grade is where you learn to READ, and reading is when you look at words and the words turn into STORIES and stories are like movies but in your BRAIN." I sat at the table with the leftover fajita peppers and the supply list receipts and the combination lock still in its package and I thought about September. About Jayden in those hallways. About Chloe getting older. About Elijah explaining reading to a stuffed tiger. About the $187 and the $40 from Lorraine and the cushion I'm building shift by shift.

Five weeks left of summer. Four. I've lost count. It doesn't matter. What matters is: the supplies are bought. The haircuts are done. The fajitas are made. The college fund is holding. The lock is waiting for a locker that is waiting for a boy who is waiting to find out who he is in a building full of strangers. I can't go with him. I can't stand in the hallway and steer him through. All I can do is buy the lock and pack the lunch and cook the dinner and be here — right here, at this table — when he comes home. That's the job. That's always been the job. Be here. Cook something. Listen. Be here.

That Thursday fajita night reminded me what I already know every September: the weeks before school starts are not the time for complicated cooking. They’re the time for fast, filling, and cheap — dinners that leave you enough energy to sit at the table afterward and think, or listen, or just be. Turkey Medallions with Tomato Salad has been in that same rotation for me — lean protein, a bright fresh salad, thirty-five minutes start to finish, and not a single child can find a reason to complain about it except Elijah, who eats around the tomatoes and calls it a win. When you’re building a cushion shift by shift and buying combination locks and counting the weeks until September, you need a recipe that doesn’t ask much of you. This one doesn’t.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs turkey breast tenderloin, sliced into 1-inch medallions
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp Italian seasoning
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
2 tbsp olive oil, divided
2 cups cherry tomatoes, halved
1/2 small red onion, thinly sliced
1/4 cup fresh basil leaves, torn
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
1/4 tsp salt and pinch of pepper for the salad

Instructions

Season the turkey. Pat the turkey medallions dry with paper towels. In a small bowl, combine garlic powder, Italian seasoning, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Press the seasoning evenly onto both sides of each medallion.
Make the tomato salad. In a medium bowl, combine the halved cherry tomatoes, red onion, and torn basil. Drizzle with 1 tbsp olive oil and the red wine vinegar. Season with salt and pepper and toss to combine. Set aside to let the flavors meld while you cook the turkey.
Sear the medallions. Heat the remaining 1 tbsp olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add the turkey medallions in a single layer without crowding the pan — work in batches if needed. Sear for 4 to 5 minutes per side until golden brown and cooked through (internal temperature of 165°F).
Rest before serving. Transfer the cooked medallions to a plate and let them rest for 3 to 5 minutes. This keeps them juicy instead of dry.
Plate and serve. Arrange the turkey medallions on a platter or individual plates. Spoon the tomato salad alongside or directly over the top. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Turkey Medallions with Tomato Salad — The Weeknight Recipe That Holds the House Together