As remembered one hot afternoon above the port of Marseille
It was a day that asked for stillness. The sort of heat that pressed into your skin like memory. I had not the heart to cook, only to compose. The stone table on the terrace was cool to the touch, and the shade of the olive tree flickered against my glass of wine.
I opened a jar of chickpeas – not out of laziness, but practicality. Dried ones, of course, are ideal if you have the time to coax them slowly to tenderness. But this was a day for simplicity.
Into a wide bowl they went: two cups or so, plump and golden, the scent of their brine clinging faintly. I thought of texture, of the quiet pleasure of bite, and so added half a cucumber, chopped coarsely, its cool green flesh a balm against the sun.
Then came the tomatoes – sweet, firm, the kind that burst slightly when you slice into them. A handful, quartered. A red onion, slivered with the delicacy of something respected but not trusted, went next. Only a little; too much and it overreaches.
To this, the brightness of herbs. Parsley, generous and flat-leafed, and mint, which always brings to mind the gardens of North Africa, the hush of tile courtyards. Chopped roughly, like an afterthought that matters deeply.
The dressing is not a dressing, really. It is instinct. Olive oil, of course – real, fresh olive oil, harsh and round in the mouth, a spoonful or two… and some more. A squeeze of lemon, sharp and laughing. Salt… Aegean Fleur de Sel, always. Pepper, yes, but more like a whisper than a shout.
I stirred it all together with my hands, because wooden spoons lack intimacy, and because the scent of the mint and lemon on my fingers lingered longer than the salad itself.
It sat for ten minutes, or maybe fifteen, as I watched the sky pale. And when I ate, with bread torn from the loaf and a glass of white wine that had gone a little warm, I felt, as I often did, that life could be very good indeed – if only we let it be simple.
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