Early in September, Matyas discovered some images of us carving pumpkins last fall that we’d printed and bound into a book (from Recently—if you guys don’t know about it—check it out: it’s like a magazine of your real life). The very next day at the grocery, he insisted on getting pie pumpkins—for carving. In my world, carving can wait a few weeks, and please don’t ask me about Halloween costumes before October one. But, alas, I indulged him and bought a couple of tiny pie pumpkins on our next trip to the store. We (mostly András) carved his little pumpkin on the spot, and we (mostly me) roasted the second one for Aran’ Goyoga’s Brown Butter Squash (delicious!). The rest of it hung out in the fridge for a few days, tempting fall.

Just after dinner one night, as I was putting away the leftovers, I spotted it blurted out, “let’s make pumpkin pancakes tomorrow for breakfast.” I didn’t meant tomorrow tomorrow, of course. Tomorrow was a school day! But my kids don’t forget anything (do yours?), especially not the promise of pancakes. So that Tuesday morning the first words out of their mouths was PUMPKIN PANCAKES….

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This summer, we traveled to Italy on a dime (ie. cheap seats)—then ate our way through markets, grazed on thin, crackly-crusted Roman pies and piles of peaches and plums. It was bliss. Almost every meal was exceptional—-well-researched and worth the long treks across town for all the most renowned pastas, pizzas and gelatos (I promise to share my must-do-in-Rome list, soon). But one day, when we’d walked all the way from our charming Air-b-n-b, Monte di Pietà to the Colosseum, carrying my four-year-old son on our backs, passing his limp, jet-lagged body back and forth from parent to parent, we found our way to the restaurant we’d most been wanting to try, a recommendation from my instagram friend, Elvira Zilli, who calls Rome home.

She may have mentioned something about making sure to call first to make sure they were open—it was August in Italy, afterall; many smaller mom-and-pop places close for summer holidays. But I had forgotten that little detail. So I did what any respectable, exhausted mother in Rome would do when she has only five days to conquer all the delicious things —I called a Uber (don’t do it, cabs are much cheaper than Ubers in Rome!) and climbed into the plush leather seats, AC and all. We’d walked for four solid days and it only felt fair, to all of us. I instructed the driver to take us to yet another far-flung corner of the city, crossing my fingers we’d find another gem, when my husband asked, but, where do you eat lunch? He started listing places, as I hurriedly pulled each one up on Google, cross-referencing penciled lists from bloggers and friends who live or lived in Rome, stuffed into my purse. Finally, he mentioned Pizzeria Emma, where he said he had eaten lunch that very day. It didn’t ring a bell, but something in me said to take him up on his offer to drive us straight there.

There were no spots in the sidewalk cafe, but he talked them into giving us a table inside, where we found none of the charm of Sora Margherita, nor the raucous laughter at Da Buffetto (an absolute Rome, must!), nor the date-night glam of Roscioli. It was a little too shiny, too much AC, and our son was definately the youngest diner there. Yet—-yet!

A couple of years ago, around this time of year, we had some of our dear friends over for am impromptu dinner in the backyard. I didn’t have anything planned, so while dinner cooked, I ran out to our prolific rhubarb patch, picked a bunch and sliced and tossed it together with a pint of raspberries I had tucked in the fridge. I pinched together some oats, butter, flour and walnuts—in no particular order, abiding by my grandmother’s pinch of this and dash of that rule (salt, sugar) until it felt just right.

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The other night, I went searching for an old photo of gooseberry pie by using the keyword “PIE” on my iPhone’s photo search bank. Exactly 249 images came up of pies or tarts I’d made between 2012 and today—Chocolate Silk Pies and Triple Berry Pies, Apple Tart Tatins and Huckleberry Galettes, Blueberry Lattice Pies and Sour Cream Apple Tarts, Double Crust Cherry Pies and perfectly custardy Pumpkin.

I know pies. But today, fast and unapologetically unfussy are my calling card. Take a rhubarb galette….

READ ON FOR THE RECIPE

I always want to give my post a poetic title, like Salad for One (if, you consider that poetic), but conventional internet wisdom tells me you want recipes, and you want to know exactly what is in them. The problem with a long recipe title is the same problem with a long ingredient list—it’s a mouthful, and perhaps at times, off-putting. Don’t let that scare you off. This is a gem, a real killer. I promise.

This isn’t just any salad. This is the kind of salad I skipped Saturday brunch with my family to put down on paper for you. One so good I didn’t even share a single bite with them the day I made it. And that doesn’t happen very often. Sure, I like a good salad. You might even say I love a crisp, bracing plate of veg—but not to the point of greed.

But, when you take the time to make a salad this fresh and good and nourishing—this SATISFYING—you might occasionally reserve the right to enjoy it all for yourself, too. You’ll see why. (Skip below for the recipe).