Virgin Margarita

A heat dome this week. Three days at ninety-eight. The kitchen ran without the AC because the AC was overwhelmed. Yoga Tuesday and Thursday at the studio. The classes were full. The body was the body.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. Barbara called Sunday. We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about the play she is directing. I told her about the kitchen.

Cold somen Saturday lunch. The thin noodles in ice water. The dipping sauce sharp.

The chipped bowl. The chain extends.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

The cold somen was the anchor of that Saturday — the thin noodles in ice water, the dipping sauce sharp, the chipped bowl on the table — but I always pour something cold alongside it when the heat dome settles in and the kitchen refuses to cool down. This virgin margarita has become that something: tart enough to cut through the humidity, sweet enough to feel like a small reward, and ready in the time it takes to boil water for the noodles. No AC required. Just ice, lime, and a little patience with the week.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

1/2 cup fresh lime juice (about 4–5 limes)
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (about 2 lemons)
3 tablespoons simple syrup (or to taste)
1 cup cold water or sparkling water
Ice cubes
Coarse salt or tajin, for rimming glasses (optional)
Lime wedges and fresh mint, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Make the simple syrup. Combine 1/4 cup sugar and 1/4 cup water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar dissolves completely, about 2–3 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.
Rim the glasses. If using a salted rim, rub a lime wedge around the edge of each glass, then press the rim into a small plate of coarse salt or tajin. Set aside.
Mix the margarita. In a pitcher or large measuring cup, combine the lime juice, lemon juice, simple syrup, and cold water. Stir well to combine. Taste and adjust sweetness or tartness as needed.
Serve over ice. Fill each prepared glass with ice cubes. Pour the margarita mixture over the ice, dividing evenly between the two glasses.
Garnish and serve. Add a lime wedge on the rim and a sprig of fresh mint if desired. Serve immediately alongside whatever the afternoon calls for.

Nutrition (per serving)

Virgin Margarita — Something Cold for the Week the Heat Wouldn’t Break