This morning Mike, our handyman, arrived at the front door with a huge bowl filled with a salad he’d made from his own garden. He’d also created a dressing with two type of balsamic vinegar for it. While Mike has often given us vegetables from his garden before, this was the first time everything was washed, cut, and beautifully arranged.
There was no further preparation needed at my end.
Mike’s salad would be a perfect accompaniment for the rest of tonight’s dinner, but it looked so good that I ate half of it for lunch. Not being a salad aficionado, Earl will never notice.
I love a garden salad, particularly ones created with the usual lettuces, red onion, cucumber, and other familiar ingredients. I also love an esoteric salad with exotic lettuce, bean sprouts, capers, maybe anchovies, and then wilted with hot dressing. I’m crazy about the “Wedge” too.
But salad loses some of its allure when I’m the one who washes the celery and zucchini, peels the mushrooms, and cores the tomatoes. It becomes more of a chore than an edible work of art.
Which leads me to a serious culinary question: Why is it when someone else makes a salad it’s always more appetizing?
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