June. The cucumber in the garden has finally decided to cooperate. It's warm enough to sit outside with the back door open, and the light has that late-afternoon softness that makes everything in the kitchen look like a painting. This is when a cucumber sandwich makes perfect sense.

There's almost nothing to it: good bread, real butter, a cucumber sliced so thin you can nearly read through it. That's why it's difficult. When a recipe has three ingredients, each one is completely exposed. The bread must be fresh and soft. The butter must be real, unsalted, at room temperature. The cucumber must taste like a cucumber, which means it must be in season. A January cucumber tastes of cold water and regret. Wait for summer.

I know people think of these as fussy. Something from a period drama, served on tiered stands by people in white gloves. Forget all that. A cucumber sandwich is one of the most honest things you can eat. It is bread and butter and a vegetable, assembled with care, cut neatly, and eaten with your hands. Your kitchen, your rules. I make them when the weather is warm and I want something light and cold and green, and I eat them standing at the counter without a plate. The Edwardians would be appalled. I don't mind.

The trick, if there is one, is attention. Salt the cucumber first to draw out the water. Butter the bread to the edges. Slice everything thin. Press gently. Cut cleanly. We're only making a sandwich. But a sandwich made with this kind of quiet care is worth writing down.