I always knew what I was getting for my birthday from my Grandpa—a paper sack filled with cherry tomatoes he grew in his garden.  I loved that simple gift in brown paper, raised by him from his own hands.  They were sugary and perfectly ripe, almost like candy.  My Grandpa was a predictable man, and there was such safety in that predictability.  His life was filled with rituals. 

On long road trips, my Grandpa would sit in the back seat with me and share a bag of sunflower seeds he often carried with him.  We’d snack on those salty seeds as we drove the country roads past where he grew up as a small child.  He’d tell me stories about his childhood growing up with his grandparents, marrying his wife, and how he missed her everyday as if he just lost her yesterday.  My grandpa told stories in a loop.  You always knew which part was coming next, but he couldn’t be interrupted.  If someone tried to stop him by saying they’d heard the story before, my Grandpa would tell them, “It’s such a good story.  It’s worth hearing again.”  So I’d chomp on my sunflower seeds and listen to him tell me about the old days growing up in the rural Iowa countryside.  Then when it was time to say goodbye, I’d kiss his cheek, and he’d grab his heart as if it was almost too much for him, he’d swoon, and I’d have to catch him before he’d fall to the floor.

Summer always makes me think of him—when there’s life in the air and it’s time for planting, when a road trip and a handful of sunflower seeds would hit the spot.

So as I poured sunflower seeds over the top of the Fruity Spinach Salad from Vegan Table that I was bringing to a friend’s birthday, I thought of my grandpa and those birthdays growing up, and hot days of summer, riding in the back with my legs stuck against plastic seats.  The spinach and cucumbers were a backdrop for the rich seeds.  The dressing consisted of fresh raspberries blended with seasoned rice vinegar.  The tartness of the vinegar was balanced by sweet chunks of oranges in the salad.  It was similar, I suppose, to reflections and memories of people we love and have lost.  Bittersweet.