Hi, folks! It sure was odd how no time at all passed between June 15 and now! A good thing, too, for if it had I’d be obliged to go through another incredibly tedious round of apologies. Whew!
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Instead, today I’m free to turn attention towards matters of greater import, by which I mean salad. I like salad as much as the next unicorn –maybe even more– and while I don’t mean to brag, I’ve had just about every salad there is. Chef salads, caesar salads, Cobb salads, Crab Louie salads, chicken salads… truly, it would be pointless to attempt to list all the salads I’ve enjoyed. I’ve even tried meat salad, which has no vegetable matter of any kind and is basically just a big pile of salami.
But as my salad-eating experiences have grown over the years, a secret concern has begun to gnaw away in my gut. What if I don’t actually like salads at all? Is it possible I’ve been misleading myself all these years? What if I only view salads as a means to an end, as merely a vehicle for cramming as much salad dressing down my eat-hole as possible?
Tell you what. I’m going to make a nice fresh garden salad and, for a change, I’m not going to dump a cup and a half of ranch on top, nor will I drown it in a tart little balsamic vinaigrette, nor drizzle it with endless delirious lengths of crisp American-style Italian. I’m gonna go in cold and try to experience the salad on its own terms, with simply bravery and honest truth. Wish me luck!