Iron Fork Amateur Competition

Video by George Prine:

I have a new blog

This project is now complete. I have begun a new blog, called "Leafy Reader". Leafy reader is a collection of short stories inspired by love and produce. I hope you will visit my site and join me in my journey as I discover and re-discover the amazing and expansive landscape of freshly grown foods.

http://leafyreader.blogspot.com/

Salad 90: Fireworks at High Tide Salad

His skin was brown like leather, his hair oily and straggly and dusted with sand, as though he had been a victim of shipwreck. He began each day before the sky's Great Metamorphosis of gray to green to blue; before the heat of the morning cooked out the calm cool of night and attracted gymnasium sounds of tourists.

They came with polo shirts and knee high socks, smelling of suntan lotion, smothered by mineral shade and cabana umbrellas. They wanted the feeling of home and the idea of beach, the TV version of life. The earlybirds who lived vigilantly, certain that somebody else would take the best spot if they didn't get it first, sometimes arrived in time to witness the man sculpting. He ignored them, mostly. He played aloof. They would never know how much he needed them, how he hid in the shade of the lifeguard post and watched their faces for reactions to his work.

The children were always the first to notice. Their little faces exploded in radiance at the sight of the giant alligator, or life-sized mermaid carved intricately out of sand. The young ones had lips painted with purple kool-aid and orange Popsicle, which opened and flowered into smiles. Their fathers, with fresh combed hair, parted crisply to the side, wearing beach shorts tied with drawstrings and walking in flip flops, lost themselves when they came upon his enormous beach tarantulas and hummingbirds. They simply stood, mouths gaping, silently wondering who and why. The women swooned. Contrary to the men, they seemed to get louder and louder as they closed in on the details of the sand creatures.

Every day, the ocean would come, and wash away the sharp edges of his fish. His mermaids would melt, his tarantula would return to the beach out of which it was born. He would watch as the tide climbed up the dry sand. It would begin with the toes of his carved princess who sat looking out over the waves as if searching for passing ships, or the nose of a giant diving dolphin. The water would lap up to the edge, and in that moment, the artist would surrender himself completely.

The next morning the artist simply moved down the shoreline and started fresh. Every day, he looked to the beach, trusting his foundation for wisdom.
"What forms would you use me for to create today?" he would say.
Always the beach would answer.

The dressing:
whisk together 4 Tbsp olive oil, 2 Tbsp white wine vinegar, 1 tsp Dijon mustard, salt, pepper, 1 clove minced garlic, a drizzle of lemon juice (add tarragon if you like).

The Salad: My purpose in making this salad was to treat each individual ingredient with respect to it's nature before bringing them all together to work as a group. Heat some water to boiling and blanch 1/2 bunch of asparagus for just a min or two. Drain and rinse with cold water. Heat another pot of water to boiling and blanch 8 quartered baby bella mushrooms (or crimini). Drain and rinse. Scatter some diced romaine tops onto a plate. No dressing is needed for the lettuce, because the dressing from the veggies on top will drain down. Now toss each ingredient individually in the dressing and place decoratively on the plate. 1/6 purple cabbage, 3/4 cup garbanzos, 3 diced carrots, 1/2 head fennel, mushrooms, asparagus. Top with 1/2 avocado drizzled with lemon juice.

Christina's vote: "this salad gave me a sense of identity"

What Do You Do With Abundance? Salad

It is Saturday and the weather woke up stormy. Clouds gathered in an ominous purple sky. When I put on my running clothes I felt like a small child. I had 21 miles to cover before lunchtime and I was sure to get poured on before the adventure was through. I returned my ipod to it's home in the drawer and felt instant pangs of separation anxiety, like a child divorced from her baby blanket. I began to worry. Would I get bored, cold, lonely, struck by lightening? Worry was interrupted by surrender and I chose to focus on using this silent run to pretend I am a tourist and take mental snapshots of the sights. Storms make fantastic imaginary photography subjects. In order to keep form, I imagine wheels where my legs are supposed to be. These wheels seem to power my imagination further, and soon I am propelled into various adventures of lives not yet lived. At mile 16 it started to rain, and the water felt warm and cleansing. The air was like tea steam and inhaling it was like drinking in leaves. I began to think of the vegetables at the farm stand, how they must be speckled with earth from yesterdays rain. I remembered cooking in southern New Jersey, how at this time of the year bags would appear in the galley overflowing with vegetables looking for hands willing to take on the challenge of cooking them.

Squash, zucchini and eggplant. They seem to proliferate faster than people can get rid of them.
Perhaps you have had them before as a part of a vegetarian entree ordered at a fine restaurant in lieu of the escargot. The pasta primavera was a little bland as you recall, but the chef did manage to cook the colorful vegetables on your plate to lovely perfection.

You have had them in Japanese restaurants, sitting around the lovely little fish pond watching the goldfish pick specks of floating vegetation from between the slimy penny covered rocks. A plate of crisp tempura at your place setting revealed edges of purple, yellow and green from where the batter was torn open, and you proudly announced that you could identify every vegetable on your plate.

You remember liking the eggplant Parmesan and batter fried zucchini that you would order from the Italian restaurants, and the ratatouille cooked out of a vegetarian cookbook at a friends.

Here is a salad featuring these three abundant characters (summer squash, zucchini and eggplant), to add to your collection of memories.

First salt the eggplant. Slice off four giant circles and lay them flat on a paper towel. Sprinkle them with salt and let them sit for a bit, until they begin sweating brown liquid from their pores. You are helping them to detoxify. When the beads of perspiration have gathered into little puddles blot them with a towel.

Slice them into bite sized pieces. In a frying pan, add 2 Tbsp olive oil and 1/2 cup sliced red onions. Allow the pan to get really hot before adding the eggplant. After the eggplant has been added, it is time to start moving quickly. Keep an eye/nose/ear on the eggplant, so that it doesn't burn. If your knife skills are iffy, you may want to turn the heat down.

Mince 2 cloves of garlic and add to the eggplant. Now dice 1/2 yellow summer squash and add it to the pan. Dice 1 small zucchini and add it in. The order is important. Cook everything to your preferred texture (I learned today that Christina likes her eggplant thoroughly cooked while I like mine a little firm. It is very disconcerting to watch someone literally spit out their first bite of eggplant after you have just worked to make it just the way you like it. If you plan to cook eggplant for an audience you are going to need to wear your thickest skin.) When it is done, turn the heat off and allow the vegetables to cool. Add some diced cherry tomatoes, quartered.

The dressing (This sauce is really good on sandwiches or as a vegetable dip): Mix together 1/2 cup mayonnaise, 1 1/2 tsp balsamic vinegar, 8 drops soy sauce, 1 tsp thyme (or some chopped fresh basil).

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel generous"

Fishing in the Rain Salad

The elevator door opened slowly on the two business casual figures who stood rehearsing their lines for the day. Later this afternoon when it is time to return home their will be scenes performed here, of the casual one line "have a good day" variety, but in the morning, the elevator is a backstage green room.

The man standing next to me smelled strongly of soap. The whites of his eyes were blood red. The woman on the other side of me wore square toed shoes and had a neatly tamed Afro, she looked up to the sky, like a student trying to pull facts from her memory during an exam.

Realizing that I was violating morning elevator etiquette by playing audience to offstage actors, I fumbled with my phone to divert my attention from them. I decided to check the weather. Little icons of thunderstorms, one on top of the other, for the next three days. I stared in disbelief. It didn't feel possible. As I drove out of the parking garage, the gray blue sky seemed benevolent. I couldn't recall the last time it rained, and in that moment I believed thunderstorms a fabricated myth.

I pulled up to a red light. From a seemingly cloudless sky, a single, heavy drop of water landed in the middle of my windshield with a splat. Another followed. In slow motion I stared at the droplets in absolute awe, like a child lost in the miraculous interplay between glass, water, and light. The beaded little creatures left their landing spot and rolled down my windshield, as though it were a grassy hill, bumping and tumbling back and forth in wild and unpredictable glee, pushing with all their weight on the downward edge of the globes they rolled in. Green light cast over my imagery and signaled a Pavlovian instinct to take action. It was time to go.

I remembered myself, and then thought, how strange to forget about the naturalness of rain. After stopping the car I rejoined routine by entering the coffee shop. From his chair, a man with white hair was fishing with words of wisdom, kicking his feet like a schoolboy. He cast his lines and then looked around slowly, reeling with his eyes. He spoke about how if he really saw himself he would forget himself and carry with him a sense of wonder. I sent him a glance and then went back to my head swim. It reminded me of something one of my friends used to say, it is probably a proverb, but I am unsure of the origin. "Sell your cleverness. Buy bewilderment."

Purple kale salad:
in a frying pan, heat 1 Tbsp olive oil and 1 Tbsp toasted sesame oil. When the oil is hot, add a pinch of salt and 1 small diced yellow onion. While the onion cooks mince 1 clove of garlic and add it immediately to the onion. As the onion begins to become translucent, add 1 bunch chopped purple kale. Cook the kale for about 7-10 min. Add 1 tsp soy sauce, 1 tsp rice vinegar and a little squirt of lemon. Eat hot or cold.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me wish for a full moon"

Alternative Hummus Salad

She stood in front of the classroom wearing patchwork pants with brown nubbins in her hair. Her clothing was worn and unwashed, though it had been intentionally made that way. She reminded me of an orphan child in a production of "Oliver Twist". Her presentation partner, who stood next to her, was a slightly taller more blond version of the brown haired girl, but only by appearance and first name. They were self identified members of a freedom movement, a few generations late.

The girl with the brown nubbins, whom we affectionately referred to as "Julie Patchouli" because she walked around saturated in Patchouli essential oil, held in her hands a bundle of dried garlic bulbs. Her presentation partner held a steaming hot cup of tea, which she carried around in an environmentally friendly and socially conscious mason jar.

It was my first week of organic chemistry taught at an ultra liberal alternative college, and we were instructed to pick a topic relevant to organic chemistry and give a short presentation on it. Julie and Julie were giving us a talk on allicin, an organic compound in garlic which antibacterial, anti-fungal, antioxidant, and helps thin your blood. Julie pulled off a clove of garlic and popped it into her mouth raw "it is best if you eat the garlic raw, because chewing releases the enzyme which converts molecules to allicin, if you expose the garlic to air, the allicin content goes down."

I stared at her in amazement. I had never witnessed anyone eat a whole raw clove of garlic before. I was shocked to learn that garlic had anything to do with the dreaded 'organic chemistry' which all my friends tried to talk me out of taking.

The professor, a woman in her mid 60's who wore a T-shirt with the molecular structure of 'caffeine' on the front and 'theobromine' (aphrodisiac/stimulant in chocolate) on the back congratulated them on a job well done. She was always chipper for an old professor, probably owing to the fact that she drank 8 cups of coffee a day. Chemists are a unique breed.

Over the years I had many classes with Julie Patchouli, we even lived in the same apartment for awhile. She was an unbelievable cook, and taught me about the mysteries of whole foods prepared from scratch and with love. We weren't close friends, we kept each other at the closest distance our mutual skepticism would allow. However, I still remember every presentation that Julie Patchouli ever gave. I remember the meals that she cooked, I was inspired by her love for food and I am forever grateful.

I set out for a morning run with my running partner Matt, having eaten a lot of raw garlic the night before. Ever since Julie and Julie's presentation I have made it a mission to eat raw garlic whenever possible, provided I don't have somewhere to be that I need to worry about my odor that day. After about two miles I noticed that Matt kept looking over at me with a twisted expression on his face.
"WHAT?" I finally said. "
"Did you eat garlic last night, or something"
I giggled but was embarrassed. "Why, can you still smell it?"
"Yes" he said, "you stink" and we both fell over laughing.

Here is a hummus recipe which uses cilantro in place of garlic. This is the first time I have made hummus this way and it is awesome. I had to stop myself from eating it all before Christina gets home.

Cilantro Hummus: In a mini food processor, blend together 1 1/2 cups chickpeas, 1/2 Tbsp tahini, the juice of 1/2 lemon, 2 1/2 Tbsp olive oil, 1/2 Tbsp white wine vinegar, 1 cup loosely packed cilantro, salt and pepper.

The Salad: Place some red leaf lettuce on a plate decoratively. Add 1/2 diced green pepper, 2 diced sweet carrots, a few cherry tomatoes diced, a few quartered mushrooms. Drizzle the juice from the remaining lemon half over the veggies. Top with cilantro hummus.

Christina's vote: "Stirred my middle eastern blood"

The Traveling Genie Salad

They came, rolled up in a triangular cardboard tube with a label on the outside marked "To Christina Habibi and Emily Noble." We opened the package together, and pulled out the rolled up paper inside. After carefully undoing the wrapping, the paper popped opened like a cork and suddenly possibilities seemed endless, as though a genie had appeared.
From the paper, looking out at us, were two beautiful mermaids floating in a blue ocean with floating locks of golden hair.

Christina's mother had sent us a beautiful gift of mermaids. It was a large painting she had created, which had been hanging in a bedroom of her house. Christina and I had fallen in love with it the last time we visited Arizona. The color of the oceanic background matches the Arizona sky. The mermaids have the most beautiful eyes, they are alive enough to follow you, but too serene to bother. The lovely creatures hover just above the ocean floor, jeweled like Goddesses. One of them delicately cups a seahorse, her back is turned away from the bow of a sunken ship, as if to say "I am too content to bother with concerns of man".
The genie that came riding in with the mermaids was not a painting, but a different sort of precious gift. It was the gift of possibilities, pages of crisp new sheets of composition paper on which to write the story of my life. Christina's family has offered me a fresh new chapter designated toward a section entitled My Incredible In-laws. They are willing to accept me as a member of their family even though our society and our legal system has not yet decided whether or not to believe in our love.
I remember when I used to think that I had no vote in the realm of what was real and what was fantasy. I now realize that if I am willing to suspend my disbelief, and be open to all possibilities, my book has infinite endings.

The dressing
blend together 1-2 Tbsp red onion, 2 Tbsp olive oil, 2 Tbsp salad oil, 1 Tbsp red wine vinegar, 1 tsp lemon juice, 1 tsp Dijon mustard, 1 tsp sugar, a few drops soy sauce (10) a sprinkle of paprika, salt and pepper.

The salad
Mix together 1/2 avocado, 1/4 red cabbage, 1 bulb of fennel

Christina's vote: "This salad made me wonder why"

Comfortable Reach Salad

"Still shiny?" I asked the sound woman.
"Yes" she said. I fidgeted awkwardly with the powder in my hands. She peered down at me, from under her spectacles her hands hovered over mine, coveting the little makeup brush.
"Um..here, you better let me do that. I used to work in lighting."She grabbed the powder out of my hands. I was nervous, but I tried not to make it look obvious. The camera man came over to me, "now, make sure that you "cheat" toward the camera....you've done this before right?" he asked.
"NO" I said, and for a brief moment I showed him a vulnerable look and he responded with amusement.
"It's gonna be a long day" he said, smiling, and he walked away. His ponytail swung like a horses.
We were filming in a cooking school for children. The walls were painted in candyland colors, but other than that, it had all the elements of a professional kitchen. There were giant rolling stainless steel counter tops, cupboards filled with pasta rollers and dough scrapers, pots, pans, spices, professional knives, Kitchenaid mixers. The only thing lacking was a stove with real fire (for the sake of the children they used electric). Every room in the school was a kitchen!

In the break-room-kitchen, the counter tops were filled with snacks and beverages, and every cooking ingredient the producers imagined we might want. The set-room-kitchen was the brightest kitchen I have ever seen, and though the lighting was intended specific for filming and not specifically to make me happy, I felt giddy under it's illuminating glow. I was in heaven. Reality television, they make you look exactly the way they want to. If you say something stupid, or trip on your words, you can just say it again! Somebody else makes sure that you are always viewed from your good side. Feeling shy? Unsure what to say? Someone will be there to prompt you.
Through the morning, I was nervous and jittery. I laughed harder than normal and more than usual, as though I were on a date. By the afternoon I felt like a baby chick in a warm incubator. Perhaps it was the cooking that lulled me into a euphoric sense of belonging. The bright lights hugged my skin, onions and garlic rolled smoothly along the shiny counter tops, my fingertips tasted their juices as I demonstrated knife skills to the teenagers who were captive audiences under the giant black watchful eye of the camera.

I felt prepared. I felt flawless. I felt like everything in life has an order and comes at exactly the right time, to prepare you for whatever comes next. Lately it seems like every day contains just the right amount of challenge, no more, no less.
The tools to deal with that challenge are always available when I am open to them.

The salad:
gently tear 1/2 head hydroponic green leaf lettuce. Add some diced carrots (sweet garden carrots), 1/2 avocado and 1/2 head fennel. Dress with 1/2 Tbsp lemon juice and 2 Tbsp olive oil. Sprinkle with salt.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel genuine"

Pandora's Salad

He held an imaginary microphone in his hand and looked me directly in the eye. The smile dissolved from his lips and his neck went rigid
"AND NOW, back to you Bob." His tone was like a firm handshake. We erupted with wide eyed approval and fits of laughter.
"No way" I said "you were THAT guy? That sounds like a really fun job, why did you leave it?" I asked of my new friend. We were sitting around a picnic table, surrounded on all sides by the green backdrop of spring and an umbrella of blue and white sky. Those of us that made up the peanut gallery leaned in, frozen by his mesmerizing dance as he laughed and gestured and walked us through his costume trunk of previous lifestyles.
"Honestly?" I shook my head.
"I couldn't stand how my nose looked on camera" he said, and then he laughed. His laughter was as good as a giant cue card pleading for applause, but we didn't need the prompt. We were doubled over with giggles.

Vanity is a giant butterfly, who flew elegantly out of pandoras jar, and whom I found so lovely that I believed her promises to make me beautiful and allowed her to perch on the end of my nose. Her giant flapping wings obscure the view of the sun, and make the world dark like I am looking through colored glass. I am so accustomed to her shade that I will not allow her to fly away.
I shake the jar and it is full, and soon I begin to wonder if I might find something to light my way in there. When I open the jar pride comes galloping out, offering her back for me to ride. I decide to let pride lead me. Soon I find I am galloping over gardens and knocking people over.
I open the jar again, and envy pokes out her head. She tells me "you don't know what you are missing", and slithers from the jar up my sleeve. She curls around my neck, feeding my imagination with tales of the world only others can see.
Again I open the jar, and from it obsession squacks "follow me, you must only turn left!" Now I am galloping in circles looking for this world I cannot see and stomping all the while.

I hear the voice of a Friend declare that the jar I hold is not yet empty. I shake it and it answers me with a hollow silence.
You will not be able to hear what is left in the jar.
The gift of hope will appear only when you offer it to others.

The dressing:
mix 4 Tbsp coconut cream (I just used the creamy half of a can of coconut milk) with 2 Tbsp lime juice. Add a pinch of cumin and some salt, 1 tsp of red wine vinegar, 1 tsp honey, 1 Tbsp salad oil and 2 Tbsp chopped cilantro.

The salad: mix together red leaf lettuce, 1 cup chickpeas, 2 stalks diced celery, 1/3 yellow pepper, 1/3 red pepper, 1 carrot diced.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel like there is no turning back"

The Suitor Salad

I woke up with an emotional hangover and the powerful urge to make pancakes. After standing up from feeding the cats, I noticed Julia Childs, with her curly hair and crooked neck, smiling back at me. She was framed in a vintage book store orange cover, and her eyes squinted and sparkled like a monk a state of spiritual fulfillment.

Outside of the kitchen their is a world of choose-your-own-adventure stories to pick from. Now and then I find myself wandering down the path of unpleasant endings, and I have to flip back the pages and start over again on a new track.
I look for flour, but we have none. Instead I find a box of whole grain pasta, and feel inspired to make salad.

The kitchen is full of miracles. It is a place where thoughts can be set aside and my senses can have a turn at being heard. Now and then my mind tries to talk over my senses, saying 'oh no, that will never work, mayonnaise with sesame oil?' But the toasted aroma seduces me and soon I am the servant of my senses again. The vibrant colors of purple cabbage and bright green leeks call me to surrender my pride like the returning suitor who shows up with a dozen roses, hat in hand.

The salad:
Cook 1/2 box of whole grain omega healthy pasta. Rinse it and allow it to cool. Sprinkle with salt, soy sauce, or ume plum vinegar (I prefer the vinegar). Add 1 1/2 leeks chopped small. Add 1/4 red cabbage and 2 cups of sliced grape tomatoes.

The dressing: I wondered if it would work to make my own mayonnaise using toasted sesame oil. After starting the process I realized that pure toasted sesame oil would be too strong. The dressing turned out to be delicious. Here is what I did, exactly: I started with 2 egg yolks in my mini food processor (using the blade attachment). I whipped them with 1 clove of garlic, 1/2 tsp rice vinegar and 3/4 tsp of mustard powder. Slowly, I drizzled in 2 tsp toasted sesame oil. I then added vegetable oil, a tsp at a time, whipping the dressing in between each tsp. As it started to solidify, I started adjusting the flavor. I added lemon juice (1 tsp) and cider vinegar (1 tsp). I added some salt and a touch of sugar. It still wasn't quite right. I added a touch of brown miso paste, and ahhhhh delicious!

Christina's vote: "This salad gave me a willingness to listen"

Obsessive Indulgence Salad

Jesse lined up the soda cans along the edge of the chair and counted them "One coke, one mountain dew, one Dr. pepper, one mellow yellow, one seven-up...one coke, one.." Christina's brother Jesse is still obsessed with a soda commercial that he once saw in 1982, when he lived in a brick house in Winona, MN. It seems he is in a constant state of obsession, although possibly no more so than anybody else (Christina says he just doesn't hide his obsessions like the rest of us).

"Jesse, could you please keep your voice down" Christina looked up from the little packet of instructions she was reading, and re-reading. She turned the booklet over and over and over again in her hands. "This just doesn't make any sense.." she said. She went back to the first page and began driving her eyes over the first few paragraphs again, racking up mileage on them.

Meanwhile, our gray and white cat dove head first into the shopping bags sitting in front of the apartment door. His ears tucked back when he jumped, giving him the appearance of a dolphin, or a flying squirrel. Nothing makes Eugene happier than a shopping bag.
I stood in the kitchen watching the scene. Our home was full of life. Everybody was had exactly what they wanted. The crisper was stocked with fresh produce.

The thunderous sound of cat landing in brown paper, the rustling of folded instructions, and the sound of Jesse, who now whispered, "one coke, one Dr. pepper, one mountain dew...", our house was a symphony of obsessive indulgence. I played my knife on the chopping board from the kitchen, in the key of cucumbers.

The dressing:
mix together 1 Tbsp diced red onion, 3 Tbsp vegetable oil, 2 Tbsp olive oil, 2 Tbsp red wine vinegar, 1 tsp lemon juice, 1 tsp honey, 1 tsp thyme, salt and pepper.

The Salad: Rinse and dice 1 small head green leaf lettuce. Add some sliced cherry tomatoes, 3 mini cucumbers and some cauliflower. Add 1-2 cups diced purple cabbage. Cook 4 chicken breast tenders (smaller than chicken breasts), or 1 chicken breast (heat some oil until it is really hot, brown the chicken and then remove from heat and cover while you prepare the rest of the salad. Check it to make sure it is cooked through before dicing and adding to the salad). Garnish with feta cheese.

Christina's vote: "A party favorite"

The Tempest Salad

It started with an email entitled "your blog?" . I opened it and read the string of words that followed.
"Emily, I came across the following links below. Did you get ripped off?"
Attached was a link to an article that was published in the Huffington post entitled "90 salads in 90 days: how a committed carnivore brainwashed herself into liking leafy greens" and another link to a blog that the author publishes about ethics. Huh.
Thoughts and emotions flapped back and forth like wind flapping a sail. It went something like this:
I felt a puff of anger, followed by the thought 'it is just a coincidence'.
I had an overwhelming sense of loss, followed by 'she just had a similar idea, but the execution is different'.
I was back to anger, then 'if she did see my website and use the idea, why not be flattered?'
Another wave of anger, then 'the whole idea of proprietary information is stupid anyway. We are all influenced by each other, nothing is original'
I read her article again. I even got some salad groupies and a few copycats inspired by my "movement." a puff of rage filled my sail driving my fingers into a type happy rhythm. I have written and deleted many words since reading that article. I have chased down evidence, built cases and then knocked them down. My salad war spread through friends and family. Third party resentments are exploding like grenades, leaving the scattered debris of letters to the editor of the Huffington post.
After the rage storm, I began thinking about my original intent in beginning 90 salads. A quote came to mind:

"Submit to a daily practice. Your loyalty to that is a ring on the door. Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who's there." -Rumi

Effort. Consistency. Dedication. Loyalty to that dedication. Persistence. Joy. An open heart. Self Discovery. Unity.
The original quote was not written in English, so these words are really not Rumi's words. They are the interpretation of a translator, who has touched the hearts and minds of many people and without credit. He himself probably doesn't realize that he is the original source of these words.

The salad:
Rinse and strain 1 bunch of arugula. Add 1/2 pkg halved cherry tomatoes 3 mini cucumbers and 1 diced avocado. Squeeze the juice of 1 lemon over the top and 2-3 tbsp olive oil. Add a little diced red onion if you like. Garnish with fresh cracked pepper.

Christina's vote: "Calmed my otherwise raging soul"

King of the Hill Salad

“This is our playground” said the new girl, and she shook her fist in an uncoordinated air pound at me while still clinging to the chain of the high swinging bridge. I craned my neck to look up at her. She was pretty, and she had deep brown eyes and was wearing pink shorts. She wore interesting brown leather shoes on her feet.

Her hair swung at her chin, just like my best friend Patience, who was currently peeking down at me from over the new girl’s shoulder. I felt robbed. I felt betrayed. I was still so naive. I didn’t care about the playground, or whom it belonged to; I just wanted my friend Patience back. I was four years old, and this was my first introduction to the adult life of an American woman. Politics, social climbing, drama, commodities, ownership, sides, a culture governed by pyramids, and right now the new girl balanced threateningly at the top.

I looked up at Patience, now a commodity, and felt betrayed. She had been brainwashed I was sure of it. Being that I was only four years old and did not yet understand the rules of this game, I did what any normal child would do.
I cried.
My skin burned under my flower print shirt, cooking the water that soon filled up my eyes. Heavy tears dripped from my eyelashes, wetting my cheeks and leaving cool streams for the wind to dry. My cries boiled into bawls. The teacher came rushing over to extinguish my sobs. The new girl taunted me from her perch, calling me a crybaby.
“Hadley” said the teacher to the taunting new girl “you get down from there and come over here right now”
Hadley let her head go limp and swing from her neck as she shuffled from her bridge to the ground and then over to where we stood. Her outline was fuzzy through my swollen tear encrusted eyes. I felt suddenly ashamed of my tears and allowed my head to hang to hide them. We stood facing each other, both of our heads bowed. The teacher took each of out hands and connected them in an embrace.
“Hadley, say you are sorry”.
“imm sorry” she said.
“Now, shake hands and be friends”. The shaking of our hands startled me out of my post cry coma and suddenly I noticed them, up close, her shoes. They were covered in beads. They were dirty and worn and the beads were falling off, but they amazed and intrigued me.
“I like your shoes” I said. Her face lit up
“Really? You want to be friends?”
Here is where I learned the powerful art of manipulation. Flattery will get you everywhere. I nodded my head yes. We ran off to the playground and joined the ranks of the bullies in the sky.

I would like to say that I have grown up, and learned different ways to play on the playground. Walking away from the drama, and finding a nice patch of sand in the sandbox to meditate on, or choosing to swing on the swing set instead with some of the quieter kids...
However, I still want to play king of the hill.

The salad: Slice 6 baby cucumbers and garnish them with the sweetest leeks (3) and carrots (6 small slender) you can find. Add 2 fresh tomatoes sliced. Drizzle with 1 Tbsp red wine vinegar and 2 Tbsp olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Easy and delicious (no joke, this salad is really tasty and simple.)

Christina's vote: "This salad made me want to bite the hand that feeds me"

The Sweetness in the Bitter

The Future:
She sat with me, glasses teetering on the edge of her nose. Her hair was silver and her arms hung loose out of her T-shirt. She used foul language, but only when tastefully appropriate, and her laughter rang with the freedom of someone who had invested serious time into developing a relationship with herself. She was not trying to get something from me, not even a patient audience. She did not seem to expect anything from me, I felt no pressure to take a stage. Unsure of what their was to learn, I felt quite sure that she was a person that I could learn from. I hope to be like her one day.

The Past:
She sat across from me, with orange glowing skin and bright white teeth, like a character peeking out from the little square on the back of a juicing manual. The faint smell of tanning lotion permeated the air, it reminded me of maple syrup. She smiled at everything I said, because someone told her that is what nice girls do. Inside, she felt restless. She wanted to die, she said, with a nervous smile and a downward glance.

In a moment of foolishness I climbed up onto my platform and began talking as though I had answers to give. I spoke about the impermanence of beauty and youth and about connecting with oneself on a deeper level, as if there were some way to talk her into hope.

We talked at each other like two kids throwing bean bags at each other. Take that hopelessness! Take that super optimism! Each time we spoke we teetered further from our purpose and closer to the edges of right and wrong.
"One day your youth will slip away, we all grow old and ugly you know, if you learn to base your self esteem beyond your vanity now you will be ready for that day when it comes" I said, feeling exceptionally clever.
"but you didn't get ugly" she said
SPLASH. Her bean bag pelted the target and I felt the platform drop from underneath me. "d-d-did you just call me old?" her face got a little red and she smiled nervously.

I had to leave the coffee shop with the consolation prize of my own advice.
It wasn't the first time.

The Present:
I stopped in the juice bar for 12 oz of carrot juice and sucked it down like it would deliver all that it has promised on infomercials. Then I went home to get ready for my meeting with the Charlies Angles. They are not really the Charlies Angels of course, but three female TV producers who are filming the episode of a TV show in which I will be appearing. I call them the Charlies Angels because they have a male producer who is behind the scenes and seemingly calls all the shots, he is kept well hidden from the set due to the fact that the entire premise of the show is to inspire middle school aged girls to become leaders. The episode will be about cooking. During the meeting we experimented with different foods, we were trying different methods of sweetening fruits when we discovered the amazing sweetening and softening effect vinegar has on peaches.

The salad:
Shred ~2-3 cups carrots (I used a food processor). Add 1 1/2-2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar, a drizzle of vegetable oil and a drizzle of maple syrup. Add some diced snap peas, snow peas and some dried cranberries. Enjoy!

Christina's vote: "Sweet tangy and lovely"

Keep On Going Potato Salad

Wind blew in gusts, tangling the tendrils which fell from my ponytail into impossible salty knots that remind me of living on the ocean. The hill ahead was both long and familiar, I have run it many times before. I felt defeated. Tired. Impatient.
I have allowed my mind to scatter from the task at hand to all the tasks which need to be accomplished all at once. I am standing in front of a full stove jumping from pot to pot, stirring briefly each dish, and tasting none of them. The meal risks an unseasoned presentation, the flavors of which I will have ignorance.
I imaging a little kitchen egg timer counting down notches, representing, not minutes, but days until the next semester begins (by which time I need to have my thesis defended). The timer is splattered like spaghetti sauce with my exasperation. I look at the hill ahead, I remember the first time I ran it...

Twin cities marathon, October 2005. It was my first marathon. I began running in the winter of 2004. I had just moved to Minnesota, and was ill prepared for the notoriously cold winters. Nevertheless, I was determined to become a runner, and to run a marathon. The dramatic effect of needing to wrap multiple scarves around my head to brave below zero temperatures was air blown into my crackling spark of ambition.
The following spring I learned the importance of proper clothing. After my first long distance run my feet were covered in blisters and I had to remove my shoes at mile 13 and walk the final 2 miles home. I recall that the very next day I wrapped my feet and went out again.

On race day, it was apparent that my training could not have prepared me for this hill (more importantly, this hill at mile 21 where it came in the race). I was too new of a runner to be able to tackle it. My body was forced to hobble up the steep and shady asphalt.

Perseverance. It has nothing to do with success, it is unattached to outcomes
Just. Keep. Showing. Up.

I repeated the marathon in 2008, a more seasoned runner. I was able to cut over an hour off of my finishing time from the first race. This hill, however, was the beginning of my slowed pace and the start to an entirely different sort of challenge to get to the finish line.

Today's workout is designed specifically to get me ready for October 2009. It was five repetitions of this hill, in a 1-3/4 mile loop, 12 miles total. I was to speed up at the face of the hill. I ran extra mileage because I felt like quitting early.

Perseverance. It doesn't mean I am going to feel great everyday. It doesn't mean I am going to see improvements. It doesn't mean the purpose of what I am doing will be clear to me or that I will understand it.

I came home with a ravenous hunger. Nothing sounds more delicious right now than potato salad made with sour cream, broccoli and green onion. It reminds me of having potato skins at a restaurant, or of when my mom would make us baked potatoes and she would set out a bunch of toppings.

The salad:
Put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Dice some fresh potatoes and add them to the heating water (about 2 cups). Cook the potatoes to desired texture and drain them (rinse with cold water). Now add 1 Tbsp olive oil to the empty pot. Add 1 small diced yellow onion and 1 clove minced garlic and a pinch of salt. Add some broccoli (1/2 large head) to the pan and stir until the broccoli turns green, then pour it into your salad bowl. Add another Tbsp olive oil, salt, minced clove of garlic and baby yellow onion diced to the empty pot and when the onion has cooked a little, add the potatoes back in. Toss them around a bit until they are flavored and add them to the broccoli. Dice 1 leek or 3 green onions or some chives. Add them to the veggies. Allow the veggies to cool. Add 1 1/2-2 cups sour cream. Season with lemon pepper, salt and paprika.

Christina's vote: "A pleasant change from the usual potato salad"

Clown Complex Salad

I tilted my head to the side, trying to decide whether to react. It was an awkward moment, standing in the bright sunlight under the impeccable blue sky. The suburban street was manicured with perfect little houses, and the cars drove slowly on the errands of those that live free of cubicles.
White headphones draped like suspenders around my shoulders, my nose and elbows dripped with sweat and I was starting to get cool from standing for so long on the side of the street in the middle of my run. An old friend stood across from me and we were having one of those odd conversations that leaves you feeling like a stumped clown unsure of whether to entertain a child who has just stomped on your foot. Did he mean to do that? Should I continue juggling, or let the tears run my makeup away. Should I get angry? The thousands of possible scenarios born in the seed of each moment pulled the corners of my mouth into an indiscriminate botox smile.
I imagine the grotesque expressions I displayed as I struggled inwardly with which face to put on. I needed to walk away for a bit. I needed to let it hover, to let it roast for awhile while I focus on other things. When I pick it up again I will taste it and see if it suits my palate to add sweetness or vinegar or to let it alone. I peeled the 4 medium beets over the kitchen sink to avoid creating a huge mess on my counter, even though the messiness of beets is sort of an illusion that can be wiped away by towel. I cut them into chunks, maybe I imagined some malicious intent. Or perhaps the intent was there, but not directed at me. Since I will have the oven hot for roasting beets, I might as well toss garlic in too to make the house smell lovely, 2 cloves. I put in 1/2 head cauliflower, because I remember how my friend Scott described the roasted cauliflower that he had ordered at a restaurant recently. It was "like angels weeping on his tongue" he said.

I sprinkle it all with salt, to bring out the flavors already locked inside the vegetables. I bathe the vegetables in 2 Tbsp balsamic vinegar and 2 Tbsp olive oil. After the pan is loosely covered in a 400 degree oven, and the timer set to 50 min, I can let it go. My shoulders melt back to normal. Is it all such a big deal? I move on to other things, as the salad tenderizes in the oven.

By the time the timer goes off, everything has changed. Beets and balsamic are sweet, not tangy. The cauliflower is buttery and rich, the garlic is mild and perfumes the air. When all is cool, I mix it together with 1/2 bunch fresh diced Swiss chard and 1/3 Tbsp Ume plum vinegar.

Christina's vote: "This salad is nectar for the Gods"

Swinging Tomato Netted with Herbs Salad

I threw the giant canvas bag over my shoulder, slipped on my white sandals and headed down to the farmers market. I passed children tethered by the wrists to smiling young parents wearing their most casual Sunday morning "natural" look. I passed the roasted corn stands and the doughnut vendors, and the high school musicians blowing popular classical favorites through the brass flavored instruments. I had to shield my eyes from the bagel stand, where warm bagel sandwiches and hot coffee beverages were being served to aid the still groggy sun in warming us all up. Browsing eyes lifted the necks of shoppers, which had an effect of slowing their feet and moving them in zig zag patterns, like tomatoes swaying on their vines. I walked carefully, but swiftly between them, as though I might bruise or cause them to fall if I got too close. I didn't have the luxury of being a tomato today, waltzing and tasting my way around the tables, I had an empty refrigerator and 15 more days left of salad to make.
Herbs lay flat on the tables, releasing aromatic nets, trapping shoppers and bringing their heads in close. Novelty carries a heavier price tag and gathers a larger crowd, the people walk by the familiar preachings of last weeks favorites, and gather around the soap box of the blueberry and the sweet corn, leaving cabbage, zucchini and squash sitting over-sized, abundant and on sale. I find a tall stalk of Swiss chard, It feathers out of my bag revealing the weight of my shopping endeavor and parting the sea of Sunday shoppers as I trudge back up the hill to the awaiting cats in our apartment home. I think of my nieces and nephews today, and of the carefree childhood joys and the newness of flavors. It is the same feeling that adults relive as they taste their first fresh garden tomato of the year at the farmers market.

The salad:
In a salad bowl, whisk together 2 Tbsp olive oil, 3/4 Tbsp white wine vinegar, a pinch of salt, a clove of garlic minced and a pinch of thyme. Add 1/2 head of fresh, dark, leafy Swiss chard. Add 3 medium fresh garden tomatoes cut into geometric shapes along the flesh of the tomato so that they hold together. Add some diced fresh basil (as much as you like). Season with fresh cracked pepper.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me want to yodel"

Costumes and Mirrors Salad

"She doesn't think I should take up fencing." Christina said, trying to make an ally out of the barista, who was a well chosen prospect considering he had just spent the last ten minutes telling us about how he was taking up archery and whittling his own equipment.
"and why not.." he said.
"I...uh..I dunno, I guess I think it's silly...it reminds me of children playing with sticks in the backyard" I realized after I had said it that it made me sound like a curmedgeon
"AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT?" the barista said. The encounter was shaping out to be just like the time Christina told a different barista that I didn't approve of her wearing a turban and I got shaming lecture with my Americano, the sort of lecture normally reserved for oppressive husbands. Christina, on the other hand, got a "you go girl, you rock that turban, don't let HER tell you what to wear" oh snap.
What she didn't know is that Christina has also talked about adorning herself with a cane, and an eye patch, a sign that says 'no talk tuesday', an orange and blue striped zoot suit, and cowboy boots with spandex.
By now our barista has come around the counter and positioned Christina's arm up behind her, and adjusted the toe of her boot in an en guard stance.
"Oh great" I said, "are you going to bite your thumb at me too now?"
Christina just stared back at me. I had let my inner geek slip out. I had tucked my hair behind my ear to reveal how it pointed at the top. The barista got excited, if their is one thing that the fencing type likes more than a Renaissance festival, it is reciting quotation verbatim..star wars and the Simpson's are particular favorites, but of course Shakespeare will always have a place of honor.
"I do not bite my thumb at you sir, but I do bite my thumb sir.." he said, a giant smile on his face. Then he asked me if I would approve of Christina playing with light sabers instead of fencing.
We left the building and hovered at the benches while we finished our drinks, still talking about the barista
"He belongs to a subculture" I said "certain traits run through subcultures like it, for example, the propensity toward video game playing, and preferences for mountain dew, and an attraction to wearing costumes.."
Just then, no joke, two teenage boys walked by. One of them was walking with a staff, the other wore tight black clothing and had spiked up his hair to look like a Japanese animation character. It was as if we were on a movie set and the director cued them to cross our path at those exact words. Strange.
We continued our walk.
"You seem to think you know an awful lot about this" Christina said
"of course I do" I said "I've been them before..I've been everything" I said.
Christina erupted with laughter.
"Everything??" she said. I gave her my best threatening look, the one that says 'shatter my illusion and I will make you regret it'. Then I hoped that she would heed her fathers words, who said
"You can't go around shattering people's illusions, people need them"
Christina has a way of throwing rocks through false mirrors. They create ripples of light when they fly through, revealing images from the mirror underneath, twisted and distorted and without clear edges. My way with the illusion is to polish it, because in my youthful arrogance I still believe that I can make it turn real.
"I hardly think that at 30 years old you have already been everything" And it hit me. The humor of my words was magnified by the picture of me saying them. Not only is my head slightly large for my frame, my physique is somewhat childlike from running and my skin is marked like an adolescent.
"Somebody has gotten a little big for her britches" Christina said, and she hiked her pants up high. I shook with laughter, and turned a little red from embarrassment.
We kept on walking.

The salad:
Marinate 1 chicken breast in 6 oz of mountain dew, 2 tsp soy sauce and 1 clove minced garlic. If you are the sort of cook that tries to avoid things like artificial processed foods, use orange juice instead (you need sugar, liquid, and and acid, and mountain dew fits in with the story; but orange juice is just as good).
Boil 1 pan of water and add 1/2 head broccoli and watch as the color of the trees turns bright green. You are the rain, unlocking the colors that have been trapped in her leaves hidden from the world while she travelled through boxes and crispers to get to you now. After just a few min in the hot water, pour the broccoli into your strainer. If cooking were a sport the strainer would be the benches. The waiting area. Let the broccoli rest there while you mince 2 cloves of garlic, and heat 2 Tbsp of toasted sesame oil. They add broccoli, and garlic to the hot oil, toss it around for a few min and remove from the heat.
Cook your chicken in a hot pan with 1 Tbsp olive oil. Add chicken and marinade into the pan all at once so the oil doesn't spatter. When the liquid is gone, the chicken will caramelize from the sugar in the soda on the outside. This is good, but don't let it burn. Remove the cooked chicken and slice into pieces.
In your salad bowl add 1/4 head purple cabbage diced. Add 2 Tbsp toasted sesame oil, 1 tsp mountain dew, 1 tsp soy sauce and 1 Tbsp rice vinegar. Toss together, add in chicken and broccoli. Garnish with toasted sesame seeds. In a dry pan, toast sesame seeds, moving constantly (they like to burn) until they are fragrant.

Christina's vote: "This salad had me speaking in tongues"

Click Click Crunch Salad

click click click crunch crunch click click, crunch click click...

We sit back to back, facing opposing walls, a little multicolored plate of fresh raw vegetables resting on the corner of our matching black desks. My monitor reflects stick drawings of chemicals, which trick me into believing I can understand chemistry in two dimensions. I imagine molecules fitting together, held there by an invisible attraction which is both connected and separate, strong and strained. Christina watches her screen as pieces of computer hardware float back and forth hooking into place by giant fingers of unknown origin. Crunch crunch, we are both leaned forward, searching, seeking, wanting to understand. We drift into our imaginary worlds where everything works like a puzzle, every problem has a solution.

From the picture of anthocyanins on my screen, I look to the purple cabbage on my plate. In between the water and the sugars of this vegetable there are tiny little molecules of anthocyanins, hooked together in a larger network of molecules. Like a giant crochet net they sit and wait for me to chew them down and digest them with acid, and break them apart into thousands of individual geometric shapes which fit like keys into my body, locking and unlocking my genetic potential.. no, wait, they are not really shapes, they are forces of energy, pictured as shapes. At the very core, there is...
nothing.
air.
space. the material that this cabbage is made of is
...energy.
I sit back in my chair, and try to jump back into the world I have made myself believe in which is two dimensional and can be easily understood on paper.
crunch crunch crunch

Blue green dressing:
Blend together 1 cup sour cream, 4 oz blue cheese, 1 cup parsley, 1 Tbsp red wine vinegar, 1/2 tsp sugar, 1 very small baby red onion (1 Tbsp diced red onion total) 1 clove garlic, 1 tsp mustard and a squeeze of lemon juice. Add some pepper and paprika and other seasonings if you like!

The salad:
Dice 1/4 red cabbage. Add 2 peeled diced carrots, some cucumber (if you have it) 1/4 head broccoli in little bite sized pieces, 1/4 head cauliflower.. my mother has the best way of breaking a head of cauliflower. She lifts it above her head and slams it down on the counter, breaking the pieces away from the core. It is amazing how well this works (it is really fun, too).

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel pure"

Flavors of Life Salad

Start by creating a cucumber ocean. The cucumbers you will be using are little but they are strong, they hold massive amounts of water and are not melted to softness by it. I used 12 baby cucumbers.

Add 1 head of fennel, diced. Be prepared for the possibility of having a long conversation with the cashier about fennel, sometimes they like to ask. Here is your reply:
“fennel is a bulb with a mild anise flavor and a texture somewhat similar to a less crisp version of celery. The bulb can be eaten raw in salads, used as a seasoning for cooking fish, or is delicious braised with a little balsamic vinegar. In 16th century Italy it was revered for its medicinal qualities, where it was often served to the Pope who suffered from gastrointestinal issues, which often accompany old age.” Then whisper “to help with his constipation..”

This is the point at which they begin frantically flipping through their list of produce numbers searching for fennel. They want to get rid of you. Calm their anxieties. Let them know you are here to help them. Say “..it might be listed under anise”

Add 2 cups chopped parsley remember the nights we used to play outside until it got dark, long past the point of needing to refuel. We were kept full by our unfaltering attention to each other and whatever game we happened to play. We would walk in the house tracking giant clots of bright green grass and dried mud, cursing the end of daylight.

Toss in some sweet peas and think of your little ones, and how they like to dive to the bottom of the pool to show you how strongly they swim. Their eyes are searching when they surface; they are trying to find you. See how their faces lift into a smile when their eyes have found the source of their affection. It propels them out of the water to smile so big. Watch as the peas bounce all around the counter top, rolling unpredictably in the freedom of their infancy.

Mix it together, watch as the parsley floats on water crisp cucumber inhaling new breath, chilling on the freshness of the dive.
Feed it some salt, just a little to replace what you lost while you were sliding around in the green grass outside.
Feed it some vinegar, 1 ½ Tbsp, to match the bitterness of the cashier at your encounter, choose white wine vinegar to offer your peace.
Feed it some sunflower oil, 3 Tbsp, and some lemon juice 1 Tbsp, to help deliver vitamins and energy to your little ones to help them grow.

Now let it all marinate until your loved ones come home to enjoy the flavors of life with you.

Christina's vote: "Much like a sunrise"

The Sequestering of a Radical Salad

“Begin with defining oxidative stress. The writing should be clear, concise and to the point. In essence it is the opposite of the sort of creative writing that you do. This will be challenging for you. You need partition your thinking, try to put a wall between the creative and the scientific…”
I felt myself getting smaller and smaller in my chair, the stack of papers scribbled with red ink getting larger on my lap. My professor spoke from a behind a castle of books surrounded by a moat of papers. My desk at home was more like a barricade of sandbags, subject to the occasional assault from grenade outbursts.
As he continued on, I began to imagine the wall. A stone-wall, thick and indestructible. I am trapped by it, shadowing myself on either side. I look around the room to see that I am walled in. I scream but my voice just echoes. On the far wall there is a long white cot. I sit on the edge, and begin to imagine…

Chapter 1: Oxidative Stress
Hydroxyl radical was a child of Superoxide Radical and Hydrogen Peroxide, who had a one-night affair in a metal bar for transients. The bar was called the Iron bar, news of the pregnancy destroyed them. Hydroxyl Radical was left on her own. She was a restless child, full of insecurities. She was the sort of girl who would latch on to any man who made eyes at her. She met a nice man by the name of carbon at a young age, not far from her place of birth. He was a fat man; everyone on Polyunsaturated Fat street was. He lived between two double bonds. He was happy to be in the company of such a lively young creature. He tolerated her abuse. The day that she left him, he was a changed man. She had stolen one of his electrons. She left him with all of her issues, her insecurities, and her restlessness. After that, the first woman he met, he moved in with him. She was twice the oxygen that hydroxyl was. She was also a thief, and she nurtured Carbons wounded spirit to support her in her life of thievery. Together, the two of them took an alias, peroxyl radical. They went looking in other neighborhoods for electrons to steal. Then one day, Oxygen told Carbon she had met the most curious woman. She was a foreigner from the land of plant matter, who had flown in on a sunflower seed. She was a Vitamin named Tocopherol, E for short. She had given one of her electrons to Oxygen, saying that she could just get another one anytime she needed it from her friend vitamin C. Oxygen and Carbon were so touched by the spirit of giving shown by Vitamin E, that they decided to give up their life of thievery.

The professor still was speaking "...they don't hand out degree's for near misses you know. As you go on from here to continue your writing, forget not the famous words of Mark Twain, who once began a letter by saying 'I had not the time to write you a short letter, so I am writing you a long one.'"

The dressing:
shake together
4 Tbsp sunflower oil
2 Tbsp rice vinegar
1 Tbsp olive oil
1/2 Tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp maple syrup
tiny squeeze of lemon if you have one around

The salad:
Dice 1/2 medium red cabbage. Add 4 carrots, shredded (use a food processor if you have one). Add 1 1/2 cups sunflower seeds.

Christina's vote: "I'm gonna eat the whole thing-don't judge"

Hunter/Gatherer Style Chicken Salad

We lounged around drinking coffee, a Sunday morning ritual.
"What if every decision were pre- programmed? What if we have no control over any of it?" Christina said from across the room, her black cowboy boots swinging off of the edge of the red couch.
"Oh it is, and we don't. I am sure of it." A foolish thing to say.
"You are sure of it?" Christina cracked a smile.
"Um, ye..ah.." I said, in one of those, I-really-ought-to-swallow-my-words-and-take-back-what-I-just-said tones.
Anything can be argued, so I went with it. "..take for example, my cousin Alice. We grew up in completely different areas and had very little contact with each other before the holidays, yet two years in a row we gave each other the exact same gift. The first year I thought it was a coincidence. Lot's of people bake cranberry orange bread as a Christmas present, but the next year it was glow in the dark stars that you stick on your ceiling! Who gifts that? We are absolutely programmed to react to life the way we do"

In the blue darkness of morning I lay still, my head still cradled by the warm heat of my pillow, and listened to the loud cries of our little Siamese cat. I could imagine her pacing outside the door, her googly eyes moving about wildly. I was sent an article recently about how cats put subliminal purrs in their cries which humans find particularly annoying, when they want to manipulate their owners. It was working. I had been dreaming about chemistry, residual thoughts from my 10 hour day of sitting in front of a computer screen researching oxidative stress. My alarm went off. 5:04am.

When the cries of the cats subsided at the sight of my feet scuffling around the coffee pot, I noticed a new sound, the splatting of water on pavement. It caught me by surprise, rain?? I had completely forgotten about the possibility of rain. My coach had planned for me to run a 12 mile hill workout today. I looked at the streets below, it was pouring. In my car, on the way to the start of my run, the windshield wipers were working hard to keep the glass clear. It was the sort of rain that turned intersection traffic lights into times square. I felt comforted by the empty streets, at least no one would be watching to judge the insanity of a soggy woman running up and down the same suburban hill over and over again in the pouring rain.

The rain had turned the neighborhood streets into a living jungle, bright green leaves weighed heavily with rain bent over my path along the street curb. I stayed protected in their shelter from the roar of buses galloping by. My headphones were squishy with rainwater, they refused to stay in my ears. I listened to my feet run to the tune of the last song that was playing before retiring my headset. By the fourth hill repeat I began playing a game. First I imagined I was chasing someone, faster and faster I ran through the rain. Then I was being chased, my legs pounded even harder against the pavement, my heart soared. I was a little kid playing tag in the rain. I felt like laughing. Suddenly my attention was drawn to the front yard of a house along my path. It was loaded with flowers, bushes and garden tour crowd pleasers and... Swiss Chard? I was reminded of my salad for the day.

Alice has a brother named Adam. Adam and his wife Melissa own a Crossfit gym out in California. What is Crossfit you say? Check out this link, Adam explains it better than I do.
http://crossfitculvercity.com/node?page=1
It is basically what whipped the actors and stunt people into shape for the movie 300..yes the actors with washboards for stomachs. Today I made a salad with no grain, strictly meat and vegetable carbs in paleolithic fashion (well, almost paleolithic, chickens are domesticated animals) for my cousins in California. I love how open Californians are to playing with different styles of eating. I have always been told I would fit well in California.

The salad: Preheat oven to 400. In a very hot pan with a little olive oil, sear 3 chicken breasts until browned. Remove from the heat and place on a bed of raw mustard greens. Mince 4 small cloves of fresh garlic and spread on both sides of the chicken breasts. Cover the chicken with mustard greens (you basically want to steam the chicken in the greens, this will keep the meat really moist and will infuse it with the flavor of garlic and mustard). Cover the pan with foil and bake in the oven for 22 min. Remove the foil when the chicken is done and allow it to cool in the mustard leaves.

In a separate frying pan heat a little more olive oil (just enough to cover the bottom of the pan). put a few large onion slices in (these will be removed later, you just want to use them to flavor the oil) add 1 tsp salt. Slice 3 zucchini and 2 yellow squash into thick slices and then quarter them. Mince 2 cloves fresh garlic. Add the garlic and aforementioned vegetables to the pan and cook until they just barely begin to soften, then remove from the heat (I put them in my strainer so they cool quickly). Add 1 cup diced mustard greens and 1 cup chopped parsley, 1 tsp salt, 1 Tbsp pepper, the chicken (diced). Stir well. Taste it. I almost didn't dress this salad, because the flavor is so fresh and raw and beautiful on its own. The dressing is a simple 1 Tbsp cider vinegar, the juice from 1 lemon, 1 Tbsp Dijon mustard, 2 Tbsp olive oil and salt.

Christina's vote: "Today the chicken came before the egg"

The Puppeteer's Salad

I walked in the door after a sunny run by the river and immediately my hands started working. They pulled my arms to the refrigerator door, opened it, closed it, opened the freezer, grabbed a half a frozen bag of edamame (shelled) and a bag of frozen sweet corn and poured it into the strainer. I was gliding through the kitchen, my toes barely gracing the smooth floor. Gusts of wind blew in from the 6 ft tall windows, which were open and breathing ghastly smelling city air onto my shoulders and back. My arms lifted to turn on the cold water, pointing the stream at the frozen beans and kernels and melting them to room temperature. My feet turned me around in a quick circle and carried me over to the fridge and soon my eyes were traversing the globes and cylinders and the wrapped mysteries of the crisper drawer. I picked up two small round little red onions, adorable. I placed them on the wooden cutting board and began dicing.

Just then, Christina moved into view. I could feel her watching me. Her audience made me question if there was a need for some conscious action, like when a child falls down and looks to see if there are ears to receive his cries.
"Are you chopping onions already, at 9 in the morning?" she asked.
"Ummm, I guess I am"

I was caught in a spotlight while dancing along to the music in my head. I was a child composing a song secretly under her breath only to realize that she was being listened to. I felt like I had just driven way past my exit and realized that I was lost on the freeway. It was the moment of "coming to" that happens before the panic of being lost settles in.
Where had I gone?
More importantly, why was I using frozen corn when I have a fresh cob in the fridge? Why was I using frozen vegetables at all in the middle of summer? Why was I making a salad at 9 am?
My stomach growled in response to my questioning.

This is the simplest salad that I have made to date. Actually, I am not sure that I really did any of the work. This salad used me to make itself. It turned out to be one of the most fantastic breakfasts I have ever eaten.

Mix together:
1/2 bag frozen, shelled edamame, 1 bag frozen sweet corn, 1 diced red pepper, 1 diced yellow pepper, 2 small red onions (baby red onions), 2 cups diced mustard greens, 1 Tbsp salad vinegar, 1 Tbsp salad oil, salt and pepper, garnish with feta cheese (optional)

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel festive"

Spiked with Spice Garden Salad

In the center of the garden, we stood around the little plant. Our heads were bowed, our eyes were squinted, our tone somber. "I really want to like it", she said about one of her first grown crops "but...well..have you ever had mustard greens before? They are so spicy" Standing in a circle in the middle of the field, we bore the posture of a funeral gathering. It didn't feel right. I wanted to cut the mustard greens right there and run them into the kitchen. I wanted to dice and chop and mix and force feed them to everyone in the garden. I wanted to make them understand how delicious mustard greens can be.

This morning Christina and I were talking about evangelism and things of that nature. The evangelist believes that they have solutions for all. If only others truly understood, they would follow their way of life. The evangelist lives in a world without mirrors, and starved for his own reflection tries to paint himself on others. This morning I tried to distance myself from the evangelist, I floated him away to an island on a raft constructed of my own judgement. How ironic that in writing this now I can clearly see my own evangelistic urges over a bunch of mustard greens.

I walked down the rows of tables overloaded with bushy greens and red shapes and dirt crusted roots at the St. Paul farmers market. I stopped at a table where a large beautiful bundle of mustard greens was on sale for 1 dollar. There is an unmistakable financial benefit to being a person who is open to alternative paths through life. The roads less traveled overflow with available abundance, if one is willing to learn how to access it. I stopped at the table.
"are these spicy? " I said, my bag was already full and overflowing from my shoulder where it hung.
"OH Nooo" said the farmer "they are not spicy at all, perfect for salad"
I gave her a skeptical look and then tasted them, she watched nervously. I don't think she expected me to do that. One small taste made my sinuses clear and my eyes water.
"Oh, good. I will take them" I said. The woman looked surprised, but happily packed them up for me.
I had the same sort of interaction at several tables of radishes. It seems that "spicy" is not a big seller at the farmers market. I finally found some hot radishes and then left for home.

The dressing:
mix together
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp salad oil
1 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
1/2 Tbsp white wine vinegar
juice from 1 lemon
1 tsp maple syrup
a pinch of salt

Chop 2 cups of mustard greens. Cut them with 1/2 head of romaine (use less mustard greens and more romaine if you are just introducing them to someone for the first time). Add 1 carrot and 2 mini cucumbers (peeled and diced), 1 tomato, and 1-2 cups sweet pea pods. Add some spicy radishes if you like (we do).

Christina's vote: "This salad put me in a fightin' mood"

Footsie Pajama Nostalgia Salad

I had a pink pair of footsie pajamas that were absolutely wonderful. They were worn into little fuzzy balls on the outside. Inside they hung a perfect distance from my skin. They trapped warm air all around me, but the fabric was far away enough to provided cool relief when I moved my skin to meet it. The feet were white around the toes, essential to facilitating the imagery on my journeys into the world of becoming feline, canine or equine. The bottoms of the feet had been fashioned with grip pads to prevent children from going sliding across linoleum and careening into cabinets or oven doors. Mine were caked with the right amount of dirt to enable me to slide alongside my older brothers; but they were still grippy enough to provide an alibi if I felt too afraid to be a daredevil. As I look outside at at this Christmas-in-July weather, I feel a deep longing for those footsie pajamas.
My brother Andy and I were only 1 year apart. We were best friends. I remember Andy walking into our kitchen one day, with his bowl hair cut hanging just above his eyes, and declaring that he was going to become a chef one day.
A..chef ??
I was younger than he was, but we had had the same upbringing. We both used to love laying on the shag carpet and watching episodes of the Graham Kerr cooking show. Why had it never occurred to me that becoming a chef was an option! Suddenly I felt jealous. I wished that I had thought of this first. I felt like he had robbed me of my destiny, because he had chosen it first and now if I also chose to become a chef I would never be anything but a follower. From that day forth I was to defer to him in matters of cooking, he was going to be the chef after all. My mother tried to console me.
"You are going to be a famous piano player, you have such a good ear for music" she would say. 'I want to be a chef.' I would think.
Our first experiments in the kitchen involved more baking than cooking. Neither one of us could reach the stove top, but our mother allowed us to use the oven with her permission. We had tall kitchen chairs, which we dragged to the baking cabinets to stand on so that we could reach what was inside.
From these chairs we spilled flour, and gathered spices, our heads disappearing into the vanilla smelling cavern of chocolate chip bags and baking powder.
Everything we baked turned out flat, and tasted the same. A cinnamon flavored bread like substance that was really more of a dense cake. After a few attempts at this we turned our attention to microwaving marshmallows, a quicker more exciting process yielding tastier results.
One day, when we were a little older and I had grown into the temperament of not feeling like practicing the piano, Andy walked into the kitchen and announced that he resented the fact that he was never given the option of taking piano lessons. I perked up in my chair.
"You want to play the piano?" I asked. Suddenly I felt a lot cooler for knowing how to play. I also noted that the chef position was now available.

Just like that, we traded passions. After a brief stint with the piano, Andy moved on to become a talented saxophone player. He had a band and they were successful, he performed in front of large crowds. He moved on to classical composition, he now lives in Germany and is pursuing a graduate degree in classical composition.

I am currently living a life of composing salads.

The dressing (not pictured on the salad):
1 Tbsp balsamic vinegar
1/2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 tsp honey
generous sprinkle of cinnamon
4 Tbsp sunflower oil
a squirt of lemon juice
dash of salt

Dice 3 medium kohlrabi, add one bulb of fennel (find one with a strong anise flavor) garnish with diced basil.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel like I could single-handedly turn the economy around"

History Class Salad

“Please put your pencils down.” Tick, tick, tick, I stare down at the blank sheet of paper in front of me.
What.
Happens.
Now.
Papers come alive with rustling, metal desk feet scrape against the floor like raging bulls kicking sand in a ring, kicking, propelling dark figures all around. You feel like you are about to be trampled by them, they are moving unpredictably yet together in one mass toward the front of the room.
You feel your heart sink, it pulls you lower into your chair, so low, it seems, that the little attached desk chokes you at the throat. It threatens to decapitate you. You feel the blunt edge against your skin and realize that your desk is more of a pillory than a guillotine, even worse.
Their laughter as they waltz into the halls, out of the cinder block walls; their joy at freedom as they sway into the weekend, fills you with regret.
You sit in across from the giant mastermind of all this torture, his hair frames his face in wirey gray curls, permanently blown back from his forehead like a mad chemist. His glasses clutch firmly to his nose, trained obediently to hold there in place, defying their inanimate nature, which would cause them to slide. His shirt stands stiffly at attention, proudly refusing to ruffle or wrinkle except where appropriate at the crease of his elbow as he lifts his hand onto his desk to tap it lightly with his pen breaking the spell of your stare.
“Time” he mouths, without bothering to blow air out of his lips.
You feel even lower. You were not worth the breath, and he knew it.
Reluctantly you stand and pull one strap of your, still open, backpack over your shoulder. The only thing left to do.... is to be a smart ass. If you can’t be good, then you will be bad. You will be really bad. You will be the best at being bad. You will be slovenly, lazy, ungrateful, and defiant. You will be unmade always, like a messy bed thrown together in the morning, clothing hanging in all the wrong places, hair tangled into a knot. You will hang around with the “wrong crowd” comprised to mothers only of other people’s children.
Wait.
You have options.
You always have options.
Stay in the middle of the seesaw, you do not have to jump always in the air or sink to the ground. Balance on your feet if you like an extra challenge, stand on your hands even. Look closer at your paper. It is not completely blank, you have some written there and even more inside of you.

Walk slowly to your teacher; contemplate the meaning of the word. Watch as he becomes smaller the closer you walk to him, his hair reflecting soft light from the window. His glasses slide. He pushes them back into their creases. He is not perfect.
Ask him for his help; then listen carefully to his reply.

When you get home, there is a nice taco salad to eat:
In a hot pan, cook 2 baby red onions. Add a clove of garlic. Cook 1 cup grass fed ground beef. Season with chipoltle pepper and a little tomato paste (or some Mexican seasoning). In a separate hot pan, heat some vegetable oil until it is really hot and add 1 flour tortilla. Allow it to brown on both sides, then remove from heat. Build your taco salad by adding all your favorite fresh taco veggies, I used romaine lettuce, yellow pepper, green onion diced, tomato, fresh raw sweet corn on the cob (cut off the cob). Dress with lime juice and vegetable oil, and top with sour cream. (cheese, cilantro and avocado would be delicious, but I left them off this time)

Christina's vote: "Gives new meaning to taco salad"