The Taste of Summer

There are certain flavors that don’t belong to recipes.

They belong to memories.

Long before I knew what a vinaigrette was, before I could pronounce “balsamic,” before I ever sold a home or worried about mortgage rates, I spent my summers in my grandmother’s house in Baguio City.

Back then, Baguio felt impossibly far away from everything. The air smelled of pine trees. The mornings arrived wrapped in fog. The afternoons were spent chasing cousins through gardens bursting with hydrangeas and roses. And by evening, everyone somehow found their way back to the dining table.

My grandmother believed in simple meals.

Nothing complicated. Nothing fussy.

Just food that made you want to stay a little longer.

One summer, she discovered a bottled strawberry vinaigrette sold at one of the small specialty shops near Session Road. I remember the bottle because it seemed so elegant to me. Sophisticated. Imported. The kind of thing grown-ups bought when they wanted dinner to feel special.

She would toss fresh lettuce with strawberries from La Trinidad, cucumber slices, and whatever vegetables looked best that week at the market.

The dressing was sweet but not too sweet.

Tangy but not sharp.

And somehow it tasted exactly like summer felt.

At the center of the table would be a platter of baked salmon, lightly seasoned and still steaming from the oven. Nothing fancy. Just good fish, cooked with care.

The adults would open a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

At the time, I wasn’t allowed a sip, of course.

But I remember the ritual.

The soft pop of the cork.

The condensation forming on the bottle.

The way my grandmother would smile after taking the first taste.

Years later, after tasting countless wines and dining in restaurants from San Francisco to Manila, I finally understood why she chose it.

A crisp Sauvignon Blanc carries bright citrus notes and a clean acidity that mirrors everything beautiful about strawberry vinaigrette. Together they lift the richness of salmon without overwhelming it. One supports the other.

Much like family.

Much like home.

I couldn’t have known then that decades later I would spend my life helping people search for homes of their own.

Nor could I have known that one day I would be writing about a salad dressing.

And yet here we are.

Because sometimes what stays with us isn’t the grand feast or the expensive bottle of wine.

It’s the small things.

A grandmother’s dining table.

The scent of pine drifting through an open window.

A cool Baguio evening.

A strawberry salad dressed moments before dinner.

And the feeling that everyone you loved was still gathered around the table.

When I make our Casa Alon Strawberry Balsamic Vinaigrette today, I still think about those summers.

The strawberries are fresher.

The balsamic is better.

The recipe is certainly more refined.

But the feeling remains exactly the same.

And perhaps that’s what we’re really searching for when we cook.

Not perfection.

Just a way back home.