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Creamy Cucumber Salad

Oh my goodness, this Creamy Cucumber Salad! Let me tell you, it's been my absolute lifesaver during those sweltering summer days when the thermometer hits 95 and I can't bear the thought of turning on the oven. It's this gloriously refreshing side dish that's smothered in the most luscious, tangy dressing that makes regular cucumbers taste like they've gone to finishing school. It's not heavy or complicated either – who needs that when you're already melting in July heat? I think it's perfect for everything from casual Tuesday dinners to those "the neighbors invited us over again and I need to bring something" moments.
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Ingredients Equipment Method

Ingredients
  

  • 3 English cucumbers about 900g – roughly the length of my forearm each, or the exact distance my cat can stretch when she's being particularly dramatic
  • 240 g sour cream a cup-ish – the full-fat kind, because life's too short for watery low-fat substitutes
  • 60 g mayonnaise around 1/4 cup – real mayo, not that sweet miracle whip stuff that divides families at picnics
  • 45 ml white vinegar 3 tablespoons – from that bottle that's probably been in your pantry since who knows when
  • 15 g sugar a tablespoon – just the plain white granulated stuff, nothing fancy needed here
  • 15 g fresh dill chopped (about 1/4 cup loosely packed) – about one small supermarket bundle or a generous handful from your garden if you're that impressive type of person
  • 1 medium red onion sliced impossibly thin (around 150g) – pick a firm one, not those sad soft ones that have clearly seen better days
  • 5 g salt a teaspoon-ish – preferably sea salt, but the kind that comes in a cardboard cylinder works just fine too
  • 2 g freshly ground black pepper 1/2 teaspoon – please, for the love of all things delicious, grind it fresh! That pre-ground dust has all the flavor of, well, dust.

Equipment

  • A knife that can actually cut things (my first apartment knife was so dull I practically bruised the cucumbers into submission – don't be like 22-year-old me)
  • Any cutting board that doesn't wobble catastrophically (the wooden one my dad made me is still going strong despite the wine stains and knife scars that tell 20 years of kitchen stories)
  • A big ol' mixing bowl (I still use the faded plastic one that survived three roommates, two moves, and one particularly wild New Year's party)
  • A medium bowl for the dressing (the one with the chip that your mother-in-law always gives you the side-eye about)
  • Measuring spoons and cups (though if we're being honest, after making this a thousand times I just eyeball it now and it always turns out fine – cooking rebellion!)
  • A vegetable peeler if cucumber skin gives you the willies (totally optional – I'm Team Leave-The-Skin-On myself)
  • A mandoline slicer if you're feeling fancy or have perfectionist tendencies (used mine exactly twice before nearly sacrificing a fingertip to the Cucumber Gods – now it lives in the back of the drawer of shame)
  • Any utensil that can mix things (I've used everything from my grandmother's antique silver serving spoon to a camping fork in desperate times)
  • Something to cover the bowl (plastic wrap, a plate on top, an upturned frisbee – I've used them all in my less sophisticated days)

Method
 

  1. Cucumber prep time: First things first, give those cucumbers a good scrub – yes, even if the sticker says "pre-washed" (which is the food equivalent of "one size fits all" – rarely true). Now, here's where you make a deeply personal choice: to peel or not to peel? With English cucumbers, I leave that skin right on because I'm both lazy and a fan of the pretty green confetti look. If you're using regular cucumbers with skin thicker than my winter boots, definitely peel them – either completely or in stripes if you're feeling artsy. I did the stripe thing for my daughter's rainbow-themed birthday party and the kids looked at me like I was some sort of vegetable magician. Now grab your sharpest knife – not that sad butter knife that bends when it hits carrot – and slice those cucumbers into rounds about as thick as a quarter. Last summer, I was showing off with my mandoline slicer trying to impress my mother-in-law when I nearly sent my fingertip into the salad. Learn from my mistakes, friends. If you do use one, please use the guard!
  2. The moisture management situation: Here's my non-negotiable secret step that separates cucumber salad champions from amateurs: Place those slices in a colander, sprinkle with half your salt, and let them hang out for about 30 minutes. They'll release enough water to make you wonder if they were actually watermelons in disguise. My husband once walked by, saw the cucumbers dripping into the sink and asked if I was "giving the vegetables a shower." Comedian, that one. After their draining session, gently pat them dry with paper towels or a clean kitchen towel (not the one the dog just used to dry off after his backyard adventure, please). This step is technically optional if you're racing against the clock, but skipping it is like going on a first date without brushing your teeth – technically possible, but you'll regret it later.
  3. Onion therapy: While your cucumbers are having their spa moment, let's deal with that onion. Slice it as thin as humanly possible – we're talking "I can see through these slices" thin. If you start crying while cutting onions like I inevitably do (my kids now recognize my special "onion cutting sob" from anywhere in the house), just embrace it and pretend you're watching a sad movie. If raw onion tends to give you dragon breath or make your stomach protest loudly, here's my grandmother's genius trick: after slicing, soak them in a bowl of ice water for 10 minutes, then drain and pat dry. It tames that fire-breathing intensity while keeping all the delicious oniony goodness. My sister refused to do this step once and then wondered why her date took a step back every time she talked. Don't be like my sister.
  4. Dressing dreaminess: In your medium bowl, throw together the sour cream, mayonnaise, vinegar, sugar, most of that beautiful dill (save some pretty bits for the top if you're feeling fancy), remaining salt, and pepper. Whisk it all up until it's smooth as silk – or at least as smooth as that pickup line my husband used on me 15 years ago. Give it a taste – it should be tangy enough to make your mouth do a little happy dance but creamy enough to make you want to faceplant directly into the bowl. Need more tang? Add a splash more vinegar. Too tangy? A pinch more sugar. Cooking is just controlled chemistry experiments, after all!
  5. The grand assembly: Grab your big bowl and gently – I mean GENTLY, like you're handling newborn kittens – combine the cucumber slices, those gorgeous purple onion rings, and your masterpiece dressing. Treat those vegetables with respect! I use a soft spatula or my hands to fold everything together with the tender care of someone diffusing a bomb. You want every slice coated in that creamy goodness without bruising or breaking them.
  6. The hardest part – waiting: Cover your creation and stick it in the fridge for at least an hour, though honestly, the longer the better (within reason – we're not making cucumber jerky here). Two to three hours really lets those flavors get comfortable with each other. My family has learned that the cucumber salad bowl has a forcefield around it during this resting period. My teenager once tried to sneak a sample during the waiting time and I swear I sensed it from two rooms away. Mother's intuition is real, people!
  7. Ta-da moment: Just before serving, give it one more gentle stir and sprinkle with your reserved dill. Take a second to admire what you've created – those creamy white slices with pops of purple and green are genuinely pretty enough to photograph (and yes, I have absolutely made my dinner guests wait while I got "just one more shot" for Instagram). Serve it up in your favorite bowl – even the chipped one that you can't bear to throw away because you bought it on that trip to Vermont with your college roommates.