Summer Salad Revelations: A Tale of Two Cultures

For me, as a Bulgarian, summer has always been about salads. Not the kind you find sealed in plastic tubs in supermarkets, but big, vibrant, generous, bowls full of freshly chopped up soft, ripe tomatoes, crunchy cucumbers, roasted peppers, sweet onions, fragrant parsley, and creamy white sirene cheese. When the weather turns warm, salads aren’t just a side dish — they become the heart of the meal. I grew up with the rhythm of summer picking vegetables straight from the gardens of both my grandmothers, their aprons full of produce that would end up on our table within the hour. It’s simple, joyful, and deeply woven into what summer tastes like to me.

Good ingredients, freshly chopped!

When I moved to the UK, I was surprised to learn that "salad" meant something quite different. It often referred to a handful of lettuce or spinach, maybe a pale tomato slice, some grated carrot, and dressing in a sachet. It felt sparse, more of an afterthought than a celebration of seasonal produce. For a while, I missed the salads of my childhood — the kind that filled a whole plate and needed olive oil, vinegar, and salt, not dressing from a bottle. I’d try to recreate them at home, but I always felt a little out of sync with the British idea of what a salad should be.

It wasn’t until I introduced my British husband to Bulgarian salads that I realised how powerful food is in crossing cultural lines. At first, he was sceptical. My husband was never much of a salad lover — like many in the UK, he saw it as bland "rabbit" food, something you eat when you're trying to be “good,” not something to genuinely enjoy. In British culture, salad often feels like a punishment rather than a pleasure. Whenever I chop up a quick salad for my lunch in our office kitchenette, someone always comments on how healthy it looks. But that’s not why I make it—I make it because it’s soooo gooooood! In various conversations I have struggled or outright failed to explain to British people what I mean by “salad” and what salad means to me. It seems the best way to get the idea across is simply to make one and let the flavours do the talking. I remember the first time I served my husband a Shopska salad in the garden on a hot day — the vine tomatoes dark red and sweet, the white sirene crumbled on top. He took one bite, then another, and then he was reaching for more and more and more. The real turning point came when he tried Bulgarian salad the traditional way — with a shot of rakia on the side. I remember the look on his face: a mix of surprise and delight as the fiery fruit brandy hit his palate and suddenly made perfect sense alongside the juicy, salted vegetables. It was as if he understood, deeply and profoundly, what salad meant to me — not just as food, but as an experience. As a trained chef, that moment lit a spark in him. He began experimenting, sourcing the best tomatoes, slicing onions paper-thin, even learning to pickle his own chilli peppers. Now he’s the one who insists on making the salad, and I have to admit — he often does a better job than me. Having grown up with this dish, our son frequently craves salad and sees it as a comforting, familiar favourite. He takes great joy in introducing it to his friends, proudly sharing the flavours he’s loved since childhood. Thanks to him, there’s now a whole bunch of young people in Newcastle who practice the art of Bulgarian salad making with the enthusiasm of culinary explorers, occasionally raising eyebrows by tossing in rogue ingredients (sweetcorn, really, Hannah!) into their Shopska. Culinary rebellion, madness or both? Sure, it might make traditionalists clutch their forks, but hey, cuisine—just like life—is always changing, never stuck in one place.

Our family spends a lot of time looking for the best salad vegetables in the UK, making sure each ingredient is fresh, vibrant, and full of flavour. While we don’t have the time or resources to seek out local grocers, we’ve found that it’s still possible to discover wonderful ingredients in supermarkets if you know what to look for. For instance, we love the Viola cocktail tomatoes from The Best range at Morrisons—grown on the Isle of Man by Petya Moorcroft (who I’m convinced must be Bulgarian). Whisper it so the Italians don’t hear, but Viola tomatoes somehow tasted better than any of the tomatoes we had in Italy—like they’ve been secretly stealing all the good sunshine. Or the crisp, sweet baby cucumbers from Aldi, effortlessly winning you over with their freshness and charm—like the cool, low-key friend everyone secretly loves.

Our summer meals have become a little fusion of both our backgrounds. We still have plenty of hot roasts with golden potatoes, luscious gravy, and warm vegetables on the side , especially on those chillier Northumberland summer days when it feels more like autumn than July. But nowadays our table is filled with colourful bowls of cabbage and carrot salad (plenty of dill!), roasted peppers in garlic marinade, and chilled rakia in tiny glasses. My husband's even learned how to crumble sirene just the right way — not too fine, not too chunky. These small rituals have brought him closer to my culture and created something new and beautiful between us.

My mother's salads

Salads, for me, are not just food — they’re a memory, a tradition, and now, part of our shared story. They remind me that summer is not just about sunshine, but about slowing down, sharing meals, and feeling connected. Whether in Bulgaria or the UK, I will always carry that taste of home with me — and now, so does he.