If you haven’t noticed, it’s been a little vegetabley around here this week. That would be because Kevin is on a business trip in Vegas for the week, surrounded by the ding of slot machines, the whoosh of black jack cards being dealt and the sweltering desert heat. He is “working,” I suppose, but he’s also planning to watch the NBA draft in the sports book and being wined and dined in fine restaurants. I, on the other hand, am surrounded by a fortress of books and flashcards and my head hurts from the alarming number of rules I’ve crammed into it over the past few weeks of studying for the bar exam. But, at least I have my vegetables. And they include mushrooms, beets and all sorts of treats that Kevin wants no part of. All in all, I’m doing quite well all by my lonesome, thankyouverymuch.

I’ve decided to embrace the fact that my version of “When The Cat’s Away …” involves practice exams and fungus and lots of vitamins. And today’s recipe is a point in case. Today, I bring you peas and carrots. Now, before you click away to sexier, sweeter blog posts, let me at least plead my case. First, I get where you’re coming from. The thought of “peas and carrots” conjures visions of institutional cafeteria food at its worst: mushy, gray and convincing kids everywhere that hot lunch is a no-no.

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Last weekend included an annual summer occasion: the inaugural summer burger. Not a turkey burger, not a salmon burger, not a black bean burger. No, a real-deal, honest to god, as-American-as-it-gets burger. It’s an occasion that I dream about, especially during the months when the grill is frozen shut, enrobed in its snow-covered tarp. It’s an occasion that can practically reduce me to tears upon the first juicy bite. It’s also an occasion that can lead me to suffer from a severe case of tunnel vision.

You see, it’s all about the patty (ground sirloin), the bun (soft and eggy), the cheese (sharp white cheddar), the slather (Dijon mustard) and the toppings (grilled red onion, a thick round of salt-and-peppered beefsteak tomato and a heap of sharp baby arugula). Left to my own devices, I would likely end up with a barren plate, anointed with a glorious burger but nary a side dish (save for a pickle, probably).

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I have been waiting so, so long to share this recipe with you. It’s one of my favorite summer recipes and it appeared on our plates last summer, in its multi-hued glory, at least a couple times every month. It reminds me of days at the market where people are three deep at the bin of sweet corn, frantically pulling back the husks to peer at the kernels, blond silks flying this way and that. I spent all fall-winter-spring longing for days like that, and for this salad.

Admittedly, we are not quite there yet. We did a little tour of Farmer’s Markets last weekend—two in Lincoln Park on Saturday and our local Wicker Park market on Sunday—and the bounty included piles of tiny strawberries, with their perfect green stems; juicy heaps of cherries; crates of sugar snap peas sweet enough to eat for dessert; and the season’s last rhubarb and asparagus. There was no corn, no okra, no cherries tomatoes. But I just couldn’t. wait. any. longer.

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In both the cities I’ve lived in since growing up in Minnesota—Chicago and Washington, DC—I’ve been forced to grow accustomed to days that are an ungodly kind of hot. Days where the digital displays outside banks flash temperatures that begin with nines or even sometimes climb into triple digits. On these days, I cannot be bothered to wear much more than a gauzy, swishy sun dress and I refuse all shoes that don’t flip and flop. I’ve also been known to ban all physical contact, even though I’m generally an avid hand-in-hand stroller. And as if this isn’t all bad enough, these days even make me lose my appetite, which is truly a hold-the-presses type of occurrence.

Okay, so I don’t lose my appetite completely. But my palate undergoes a serious reduction and my desire to cook nearly evaporates. On such days, it’s not uncommon to find me standing in front of the open refrigerator or freezer, basking in the icy emanations and also pawing around for a bite of ice cream or crisp slices of cucumbers or a bite-sized cherry tomato that will cooly burst in my mouth.

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Do you ever feel bad for coleslaw? It’s always upstaged by its meatier counterparts on the picnic table—always invited but never the guest of honor. It wilts in the heat, growing more sad looking with each rising degree or passing minute. It doesn’t even warrant two whole syllables, instead being truncated to simply: slaw. Given this sad state of affairs, I usually heap a spoonful onto my plate at a BBQ, purely out of pity. And then I nudge the mound around my plate, trying to staunch the flow of its mayo-y rivulets from dampening the bun upon which my burger sits. And, inevitably, the slaw goes mostly uneaten.

I think cabbage deserves better, frankly. So I’m happy to bring you a slaw recipe that will prompt you to sit up a little bit straighter when you take a crunchy bite, wondering what exactly has imparted the faint heat (cayenne) or the sweet snap (granny smith, julienned). And it won’t suffer from the pitfalls of so many slaws before it: saccharine amounts of sugar, insipidly diluted mayo and a pale green color palette. Instead, it gets a tangy perk from Greek yogurt and a flavor boost from the toasted caraway seeds and an eye catching addition of red cabbage strands.

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