Summer is in full effect and this blaring heat calls for refreshing salads. I whipped up yesterday after scoring a bounty of ripe peaches. What’s better than straight up peaches — pickled peaches! It adds the perfect tang and acidity to a crunchy, salty, and sweet salad. Enjoy!
1 small head red lettuce, washed and torn
1 large peach, pitted and sliced
1 lime, juiced
1 red chile pepper, diced (jalapeño or fresno)
1 cup assorted grape tomatoes, sliced
1/4 cup roasted pepitas
1/4 cup grated sheep’s milk romano cheese
1 t sea salt
2 T extra virgin olive oil
2 T champagne vineager
1 T dijon mustard
1 large shallot, minced
large dash hot sauce (pick your favorite)
sea salt and fresh black pepper to taste
Place your sliced peaches and chili pepper into a bowl and cover with salt and lime juice (you can substitute vinegar if you don’t have lime). Mix well and let pickle for 5-10 minutes.
Whisk your salad dressing and set aside. Place your lettuce, tomatoes, and pepitas into a large salad bowl. Drain the excess lime juice from you chili and peaches, and add to the large bowl. Toss with salad dressing and sprinkle with cheese. Boom!
I made a new friend yesterday.
Kate and I grabbed drinks with Jamie Tworkowski, founder of the amazing organization, To Write Love on Her Arms. This soft spirit has dedicated his life to reminding others that theirs matter.
After a few hours of talk about love, heartbreak, work, and of course –basketball and sneakers — we said our goodbyes and I decided to dive into his memoir.
I climbed into bed next to my Tetris-crazed girlfriend. She made a welcoming space for me without losing a beat.
“Do you think I’ll ever actually write my third book?” I mused.
“Yes. Absolutely. Of course you will. Why?”
I strategically dodged over her chest to grab Jamie’s book without sabotaging her swift-thumbed game.
“I dunno. It sometimes just feels like I won’t.”
It feels like I won’t because it’s too much. I look at Jamie’s book title. Exactly. Because I feel too much. Or maybe I’m an imposter … do I really have a story worth sharing or the chops to even pull it off?
I sigh, kiss Kate on the cheek — she responds with a warm purr — and open up my book. A mere three pages in and I already know what I need to do.
Here’s a man completely opening his heart to the world. To write love on her arms — offering a daily dose of hope and inspiration by baring his soul, story, and words.
I immediately know: it’s time to pick up where I left off. This is my duty — when I feel brilliant, when I feel scared, even when I feel like it will never, ever make sense or matter to anyone.
My story is worth telling. I matter. We all do. ⠀
Thank you, Jamie.
I was feeling particularly melancholy as I stared out the car door window, the urban New York City landscape whisking by.
I had a few absolutes I was grateful for: the affirming squeeze of my love’s hand as she artfully wove in and out of traffic; the comfort of the passenger seat in my own car, the lack of impending car sickness accompanied by the stress of passive cab drivers that taunt and dredge in the slow lane.