I will admit that I fussed a lot with this fairly simple dish, but I had to work until I got that good, bone-tired sensation that means I’ll sleep heavily and dreamlessly. I always get it if I work in the kitchen long enough. I guess I was pretty anxious about school starting.
So now it’s morning. I didn’t get enough sleep and I feel cranky. My hair smells like vinegar from last night. I don’t have time to wash it. I can’t hit snooze again, and I have to commit to some outfit in the next half hour. I have a feeling of dread. Oh well, at least I have M and Nicki. And a cake carrier full of sesame cucumbers . . . what more could a girl need on her first day of eighth grade?
Too Cool for School Cucumber Salad
2 English cucumbers (long, shrink-wrapped cucumbers,
sometimes called hot house cucumbers—regular
cucumbers can be used, but they aren’t as good and
they must be peeled)
3 T. salt
seasoned rice vinegar
1 t. sesame oil
white pepper
2 T. sesame seeds
2 T. snipped chives (or substitute green onions or
spring onions)
Slice cucumbers into thin slices. (A mandolin slicer is best for getting thin, even slices, but be sure to use the hand guard—the blade is very sharp on this type of slicer. Check out the scar on my left thumb for proof.) Gently toss cucumbers with salt, coating both sides. Lay several layers of paper towel on a flat surface and arrange cucumbers on toweling so they are flat and not overlapping. Lay several more layers of towels over them, and place a cutting board or large book on top. Let cucumbers be pressed for at least 20 minutes, preferably an hour. While they are getting the water squished out of them, toast the sesame seeds in a small pan over medium heat. When they are golden and fragrant, remove them to a small bowl (if you leave them in the hot pan they’ll keep cooking and burn). Put cucumber slices in a bowl and gently toss them with the vinegar, sesame oil, and pepper. Let them marinate in bowl, covered, overnight, or at least a few hours. To serve, take them out of the vinegar bath, put them on a large platter and sprinkle with the sesame seeds and chives.
First Day Catastrophe
We had agreed to meet at M’s house because it is closest to school, and her mom will drop us off. Our middle school is within walking distance, but we always run late in the morning. Besides, M’s mom doesn’t mind driving us as long as she doesn’t have to get out of the car. It’s part of her therapy for having issues about going out of the house.
It is so foggy this morning that San Francisco is completely invisible. Alameda feels lonely when it’s like this, as though it is cut off from the world. Isolated. Technically Alameda is an island, but barely; you could easily throw a rock across to Oakland from the shore. When it gets foggy though, it feels like we could be floating in some remote ocean. It makes me want to live somewhere else, somewhere more connected, when it’s like this.
The “cone zone” is filled with a long line of cars. M’s mom pulls into the line and we inch forward, watching as several kids hop out of the minivan ahead of us. These kids are fresh from elementary school. They look scared and hopeful. One of the girls frantically checks her face in the car’s side mirror and jerks back from her mother’s attempt to kiss her cheek. We say nothing, but I know we are all remembering our first day. It seems like decades ago, not just last year. We are so different now.
Finally, we pull into the getting-out part of the cone zone. We grab our backpacks and pile out of the car. M’s mom blows us each little air kisses. We each jump or lunge to catch the invisible kisses and smack our empty palms on our cheeks. It’s one of those things we have done with each other’s moms forever. Here we go, another year begins.
“Ariel, that black shirt is perfect,” Nicki pats my arm, “I don’t know why you were stressing so much last night. With your shape, you always look good.” This is so Nicki. Lies with good intentions. I snort and give her a little shove.
“What’d you make, Ariel?” M points to the cake carrier I’m carrying. M and Nicki know they are in for something at lunch when they see the carrier.
“Just a light cucumber salad. A side dish. I felt like making something last night, and we had a bunch of English cucumbers . . .” I trail off. They’ve had the salad before, though not with the homemade vinegar. I think they’ll notice the improvement.
“Yum. I love that!” Nicki claps.
“Oh, isn’t that the one with the gross red onions?” M asks. Geez, where’s the gratitude?
“M, I snipped chives on them this time, so quit whining.” I roll my eyes and M giggles. I know all their picky food issues pretty well by now, and I knew M wouldn’t eat the salad with red onion.
“Thank GOD.” She breathes out as though she had been holding her breath. M is so funny with her fake dramatics. She stopped doing it, stopped being herself, for awhile last year. It’s nice to see her funny and happy again.
Last year was really crazy for her. It is all too long and complicated to go into here, but if you want to read about everything that happened to M, she has a book that tells the whole story. I’ll just say that now, while her mom is still somewhat whacked out and her dad is still basically absent, I think M is alright.
And Nicki? Honestly, I don’t know for sure about her. Last year M was kind of the center of our attention, so maybe I didn’t take in Nicki’s issues so much. Lately, I have started noticing some weird things with Nicki. She is kind of . . . distracted. I get the feeling she is guarding something, but I have no idea what. Maybe the earthquake jarred loose my paranoid chip.
On the first day of school the whole place, teachers and kids, janitors and overly involved parents, gather on the basketball court. The principal gives a speech, we say the pledge of allegiance, and general announcements are made. As everyone gathers, the various cliques group together, talking excitedly, glancing around to see the other clumps of kids. The new kids and loners form a raggedy fringe around the edges, hoping to be included in any of the established groups. Good luck. This first day dictates more or less who will hang with whom for the year. Everyone notices everyone else.
We three are, of course, standing in our own little cluster. There’s a group of jocks behind us, and I hear the low murmur-chuckle-snort sounds that mean they are talking about my chest. I learned long ago to both recognize and ignore it.
Our principal steps under the basketball hoop with a microphone. She is the tiniest adult I have ever seen (she’s even a tad shorter than me, which is seriously shrimpy), but she is tough as nails. She taps the cordless mike and the huge speakers set up against the bleachers whine deafening feedback. Everyone groans and hands clap over ears. If any dogs were in the area they probably keeled over.
We all turn toward her, ready to hear the predictable speech about what a fantastic year this will be because the teachers are so incredible and the students are so wonderful and all that. Then she says, “Ariel Solomon, please go the office immediately.”
The whole student body looks in my direction. Even the kids who don’t know me. I feel my face flame and I know it matches my hair. I want to sink through the concrete. I try to look unconcerned as I turn toward the office, but I trip on the cucumber salad I had put down near my feet. The boys behind us laugh, and I hear titters from other