Salad 90: Reminiscing Miso-ginger Salad

90 salads have come and gone, like visitors stopping along a journey. Each one has delivered a story, some had tales of cold mornings and long days of laboring, some travelled through forest paths speaking of the business of woodland chatter and the sounds of feet pounding against the scratchy dirt, some spoke of lazy blue skies and summer sun in company of the carnival atmosphere of friendship.

In the mornings I have stood in my kitchen, readying dishes and fumbling about with the anticipation of an innkeeper, wondering what salad was going to come and visit with me that day, and what stories would it tell. I tried to be observant, noticing the colors, textures, and smells, so that after the visitor is gone I could share their story with you.

I hope you have enjoyed the second season of "90 salads in 90 days" as much as I have enjoyed telling it. In the winter months, check in with Leafy Reader at http://leafyreader.blogspot.com for more stories and recipes.

Salad 90: Reminiscing Miso-ginger Salad
peel and cut into rustic bites: 1 bunch small beets
heat 1 cup water in a frying pan or pot and simmer the beets until just tender.

In a food processor, or using a grater, grate 8-10 baby carrots, unpeeled.

Clean and chop 1 small bunch baby Swiss chard

Mix ingredients together and dress with miso ginger dressing:
in a saucepan, heat:
2 Tbsp olive oil
1/8 tsp salt
1 large clove garlic, minced
1 cipollini onion, chopped
heat until just simmering, remove from heat and add 1 inch peeled fresh ginger and 1 tbsp mild miso paste. Transfer to a food processor and blend, adding
1 Tbsp water
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 1/2 Tbsp white wine vinegar
1/2 Tbsp raw honey
adjust seasonings to desired flavor and serve.

Christina's vote: "This salad put a fire under my hinder"

Wild Rice with Apples Salad

Growing up, I remember how excited my mother used to get when some Midwestern relative or childhood friend would send us a package of wild rice as a gift. As she cooked the rice, she would emphatically tell us about what a nice treat we were about to receive. I would peer over the stove, waiting to taste the mysterious concoction that was releasing woodland odors into our family room. It was black, and creepy looking, and I half expected the stuff to come alive and attack me. My mother's excitement was convincing, contagious even, it was fueled by the fondness of childhood memories.

When at last, dinner was served, I stared apprehensively at the pile of what looked like bird seed on my plate. I remember wanting to like it as I scooped that first bite up to my mouth, but then..
"It tastes like twigs" I whined, feeling let down.

It's funny how our taste changes as we get older. I now understand exactly what my mother meant when she insisted that wild rice was a treat, though I'm not sure exactly when or how it earned my favor. Perhaps it was the first time I experienced wild rice with cranberries, or wild rice in chicken soup. Perhaps it was the first time I tried real, hand-processed, wild rice as opposed to paddy rice which has a more rustic texture.

Actually, I now find that I like both kinds of rice, for different reasons. I used paddy rice for this salad, mainly because I forgot to pick some up from the market and couldn't get any of the real stuff at the store.

Wild Rice with Apples Salad
1 1/2 cups cooked wild rice
1/2 fennel bulb, diced
1 sweet tango apple
2 Tbsp hazelnut infused olive oil
pinch salt and pepper
1 Tbsp rice vinegar (or apple cider vinegar)
1/2 Tbsp finely chopped fresh marjoram (a little goes a long way)

To cook rice:
(If using hand cultivated rice, consider yourself a very lucky individual. It takes a lot of work to hand process rice, and the flavor is supreme. Generally hand cultivated wild rice cooks faster than paddy rice, and needs to be rinsed three times before cooking.)
Rinse the rice before cooking, then toast in 1 Tbsp olive oil in saucepan before adding water (I think it cooks faster this way). Add water in amounts indicated on package for desired serving sizes. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until cooked (I usually turn the heat off toward the end of the cooking and just leave it on the stove covered for a few hours while I do other things).

Christina's vote: "Strange combination"

Welcome To Reality Salad

I left work early, determined to finally run some errands. The summer months had come and gone, and it feels as though I spent my hours hopping cars on a train of one commitment followed by another, trying to get to the engine up front. With frazzled nerves, I finally decided that this train has no engine, instead it runs on coffee and stress alone. So after a morning of lab work, I took an afternoon break and simply never went back.

It was a feeling of freedom, the kind that a child experiences when the radio announces that your school is canceled due to snow. I managed to hold on to the feeling while cleaning out my car, which is a testament to the theory that freedom is an attitude and not an achievement. I joyfully wiped coffee grime out of my cup holders and vacuumed sunflower seeds off of the floor mats, happy to be working toward something that fits in the category of self care.

While driving home, I noticed a sign for a hair salon that I have never noticed before, called "Chop". On impulse, I decided to see about have a hair adventure. The salon was upstairs, in what looked and felt like an apartment of a 20 something. The wooden floors were uneven. The walls were painted lime green and decorated with black and white photos. There was an Eiffel tower painted directly on the wall along the way into the bathroom. The decor was a mixture of pottery barn and ikea. The shelves were lined with astrology books and containers of nail polish.

"I feel like I am hanging out at a friends house" I confessed to my stylist.
"I know" she said "we used to serve wine too, but then..." she trailed off, leaving me wondering. "So where do you work?" She asked.

From the confessional booth of my chair, I told her everything. As she relieved me from my tattered ends, I let go of some gnawing stress and mentally recommitted my energy. Sometimes I forget what I am working toward until I am forced to explain it to someone I have just met.

My stylish stylist shared some of her stories too "I had my palm read when I was younger, and I was told that I would have twins at 25. I never did have twins, but I did meet my now boyfriend back then.. and he IS a twin. AND he is a Gemini!" She shrugged and held my gaze as though to say 'come on, who wouldn't believe in psychic energy after that'
"How long have you been together?" I asked, unsure how else to respond.
"Well I am 33 now so.."
"Wow, you don't look 33" I interrupted. She looked to me to be in her early 20's, with dyed red hair, that she sometimes wears up in a mohawk.
"Well I sleep a lot" She told me. That was the moment that I noticed my own wrinkles, and I shot my stylist a sleep deprived look of desperation.
"Coffee?" She asked, and I nodded slowly.

I called Christina on the way home. "I am starting to look older" I said. "Do you think I should start getting more sleep?"
"Welcome to reality" Christina replied. "It's good to have you back."

Welcome to Reality Salad
Mix together:
2 Tbsp tarragon
1 fennel bulb, thinly sliced
the juice and zest of 1 minneola tangelo (substitute orange, or meyer lemon)
1/4 cup sweetened dried cranberries (find some that you like the taste and texture of on their own)
1 large carrot, diced
1/2 cup romanesco, broken into small pieces
1 Tbsp grape seed oil
1 tsp apple cider vinegar
:and serve!

Christina's vote: "A fine crisp blend"

Hayride Salad

The wagon bounced from side to side, it's giant wheels catching on patches of grass and causing us to hop in our seats the way one does when trotting on horseback. The air had a snap to it, and smells of hay and pumpkins huddled inside my nose, as though they too were trying to keep warm. I nestled my head in the crook of your neck and listened to the crunch of the leaves as we turned off of the field and onto a woodland path. I half expected to see a headless horseman jump out of the woods, or bats soaring overhead, and so I crouched down low in my seat and tried to make myself into less of a target. From my huddled position, I marveled at how sweaters are the perfect armor for this kind of ride, allowing just enough chilly wind in to keep oneself alert in the event we should encounter a hay ghost or a live scarecrow.

The moon provided a blueish tint to the path up ahead, where the trees broke open in a gesture of offering to the sky. The sound of voices laughing, and merriment warmed my fear and melted the exhilaration into a calm and joyous serenity. When at last the wheels rolled to a halt, and we gingerly climbed to the soft, loose, dirt- covered ground, I saw that we were standing in a clearing before a giant cauldron of hot cider. Light emitted from a central fire, and licked the faces of the people as they talked, and listened, and sang into the night.

Hayride Salad
1/2 ronde de nice, cubed
1 sweet tango apple, sliced
1 small bunch sorrel (about 1/2 cup)

Dress with:
2 Tbsp hazelnut infused olive oil
1 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
3/4 tsp dark honey
sprinkle of salt

Christina's vote: "This salad was a freak of nature"

Nature's Treasures Salad

"Have you guys seen Tammy's garden behind her restaurant?" I asked Shari and Don of Heinel farms.

"Yes she is growing our kale!!" Shari said, excitedly. "I gave her some to plant over there" Don chimed in "How is it doing?"

"Beautiful" I answered, recalling the prehistoric looking mass of rich green kale leaves growing unruly in the back corner of the parking lot. It stuck out oddly in the gravel parking lot, like seaweed growing in the middle of a desert. Tammy had given me a bouquet of kale to take home, and I recalled how the flat crinkly leaves dwarfed the refrigerator crisper. I scanned Heinel's table, and noticed that they had an impressive and diverse array of, not only kale, but also other exotic members of the cabbage family. They had orange cauliflower, and green, spiky romanesco.

I took a moment to express my love for the delicious crunch of romanesco, and Shari told me that romanesco is a natural example of a fractal. In case you have forgotten your high school math (or, as in my case, had difficulty paying attention in high school) a fractal is a geometric shape that can be split into parts, each of which is a miniature version of the whole. See yesterday's post for a delightful salad featuring this bizarre vegetable, which, when cooked on it's own, tastes like a buttery cauliflower.
To my knowledge, today's salad is not an example of a fractal, but it did inspire awe in me this morning, much in the same way as the romanesco. Parsnips, rutabaga, turnips, and potatoes, when freshly dug, are like sweet little jewels buried in the ground. Fire polishes them and enhances their sweetness, and oil brings about their shine. Salt hardens them to crisp little morsels, and kale livens them with color.

Nature's Treasures Salad
Boil a pot of water. Add:
2 small/medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cubed
1 small/medium rutabaga, peeled and cubed
1 small/medium turnip, peeled and cubed
Cook for 10 min or until just tender.

Rinse and chop 1 bunch kale.
mince 3 cloves garlic
heat a frying pan and add 2 Tbsp olive oil, kale, and garlic. saute for about 3 min, then add drained root vegetable mixture.
season with salt
add 2 Tbsp toasted sesame oil
cook until kale is desired texture and color

add 1/2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar,
OR
1/4 Tbsp lemon juice (and zest) and 1/4 Tbsp brown rice vinegar
OR
1/4 Tbsp ume plum vinegar

Christina's vote: "This salad made me believe in the pot of gold at the end of rainbows."

The Restaurateur Salad

We drove up to the restaurant and parked at an empty meter on the opposite side of the street. The faded sign above the door spelled out the name 'Rainbow' in slanted letters, and a purple awning draped down leisurely over the entryway like the brim of a wide sun hat. Rectangular cafe style tables jutted out invitingly into the sidewalk, like window boxes waiting to be filled. It was early Sunday evening, and all the restaurants on Nicollet were relaxed and breezy.

After cooking with her at the farmers market all summer, we were finally going to check out Tammy's Chinese restaurant for the first time.
"Let's sit in the sun, eh?" Dunja said, and Christina and I emphatically agreed. Jesse stuck close to Dunja, in order to make sure that he secured a seat next to her. Although I was feeling shy about it, I went inside and told the waiter to tell Tammy that we were here to visit. She came bursting out to our table moments later and graced us with her eccentric energy and welcoming love. Soon we were all busy with conversation, and though we were sitting on the sidewalk of a busy city street, it suddenly felt as though we were five friends laughing in a quaint village cafe.

Tammy took us out back and showed us her garden, which at first glance looked like nothing more than a parking lot. As we walked around the perimeter of the restaurant, one by one the vegetables appeared against the brick. It was like when looking at a magic eye image. After staring at what appeared to be a pile of leaves and vines, I spotted a giant cucumber, then another. Tammy stroked one of the leaves, and suddenly one of the vines was filled with little cherry tomatoes. She wrapped her arms around a potted plant, and green peppers appeared. She plucked some shiso leaves for Dunja and I to taste, and then dug up a licorice root for Christina to take home, as though she knew without asking that Christina was into potted plants.

Soon the waiter came chasing us down, and it was time to return to our seats. Tammy grabbed and smoothed out the hem of her apron, the way a little girl would straighten her skirt after playing in trees, and then headed back into the kitchen. As she walked away, my mind followed her into a picture of one of many possible career directions that my heart might cheerfully go.

The Restaurateur Salad
1 package tri-colored ravioli
Boil a pot of water and cook tri-colored ravioli. Drain by scooping out with a slotted spoon and rinse with cold water. Let sit in the strainer.

In the boiling pasta water, cook 1 head romanesco (al dente) remove with a slotted spoon

Pour out the water and add 3 Tbsp olive oil to the pan. Add 3-4 cloves spicy garlic and salt and heat for 2 min (do not burn garlic). Add romanesco back into the pan and cook 2 min. Remove from heat and let cool.

Toss together 1 cup arugula, 3 small sliced heirloom tomatoes, and the romanesco and pasta. Season with salt and pepper (optional add 1 tsp apple cider vinegar).

Serve warm or cool.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me feel fat."

Vibrant Duet Salad

Dunja showed up at the market one day recently, and within five minutes of her arrival she was helping me wash dishes. We began talking instantly as though we had known each other for years. It was while we were washing dishes that I discovered that Dunja is a friend of one of my original culinary heroes. I also discovered that she practices a cooking style similar to some of my college friends, and one which I don't commonly encounter in the midwest. Perhaps this is partially why our conversation flowed so easily, and our friendship seemed effortless.

Dunja is from Croatia, and though she has only been here for two weeks, she knows more about what is happening in the Twin Cities than I do. I therefore didn't feel too guilty about it when, after offering to show her around Saint Paul, I then took her instead to our apartment and suggested that we do some cooking.

I emptied out all of the vegetables from our refrigerator, and lay them gingerly on the counter. Then I handed Dunja a knife and a cutting board, and took one of each for myself. It was exciting to work side by side with a chef that I admire and respect, and I couldn't wait to see what she would come up with given the choice of ingredients. Christina rushed to grab the video camera, and filmed as we steadily and methodically chopped and seasoned our way through the piles of vegetables in front of us. Then we sat down and enjoyed a nice meal together. Here is what was created.

Emily's Cabbage Radish Slaw
1/4 shredded red cabbage
2 small kohlrabi, peeled and shredded
8 radishes, shredded
1/2 Tbsp ume plum vinegar
2 tsp dark honey
1/2 tbsp brown rice syrup
1/2 tbsp lime juice
1/2 cup ground cherries

Dunja's Arugula Salad with Roasted Garlic Tomato Croutons
1/2 cup baby tomatoes
2 cups arugula
1 small sliced raw zucchini
1/2 clove garlic
1 spring onion, diced
1/2 cup basil
2 Tbsp olive oil
salt
1/2 Tbsp ume plum vinegar
1 Tbsp cider vinegar
1 Tbsp capers
Toss salad together and garnish with:
2 slices toasted sprouted grain bread spread with roasted garlic tomato sauce

Christina's vote: "This salad was wow, wow!"

By Any Other Name Salad

"Maybe you could put some good recipes for sorrel soup or something on your blog", my CSA farmer said, while gesturing her head toward the boxes of produce stacked inside the farm's shabby green van. She and her partner spend hours each week generating hand written notes explaining the vegetables inside the share, and updating their customers about the growing season. It is for this reason that I assumed that they didn't possess a computer, and so I decided to forgive the fact that, despite my constant reminders, this woman still had no idea what type of blog I have.

It's not that I would expect a stranger to remember me and associate me with my blog, but I did I assumed they would be at least somewhat interested, considering their CSA is called "salad days" and they specialize in growing only salad ingredients.

"People keep asking us what to do with this stuff, I hope you can show them something", she added.
"Sorrel is my favorite" I said, gazing starry eyed into the bag. At least she had remembered that one of the purposes of my blog is to inspire people to use produce that they might not otherwise use.

"Is Nathan coming today?" she asked.
"Actually, his name is Noah" I said, correcting her on one of my friends names, and feeling a little bit better that her forgetfulness of minor important details is not personal, but global.

Actually, I can relate to this kind of awkward encounter that plagues the person with no mind for details. I am pretty sure that I horrified an old friend this morning when, in running into her after 15 months of not seeing her since she had her twins, I gaped at them in amazement, commenting on how surprised I was at how different they appeared.
"That is because they are completely different, just born at the same time" she said, shooting me a worried look. "Right..they are not identical. But which one is which?" I asked, feeling that I might redeem myself by showing additional interest.
"Annie is the girl and Ben is the boy" She said, slightly irritated. I comforted myself by thinking, that in this age of gender fluidity, you really can't assume anything. 'In fact' I thought to myself 'it was a pretty progressive of me to ask. Why should I assume that the bigger baby with the baseball onesy was a boy, girls are growing up faster these days..and isn't it a little passe to assume that boy babies wouldn't be dressed in pink frills with little bows?'

While I was busy congratulating myself, their was a noticeable silence in the conversation, and I decided that the only thing left to do was to cut my losses and run before causing any further damage. Boy, girl, Nathan, Noah, salad, soup.. what difference does it make anyway?

By Any Other Name Salad
4 small-medium sweet carrots, sliced
3 cucumbers, peeled and sliced
3 tomatoes (heirloom), sliced
1/2 cup sorrel, chopped
1/8 cup mint leaves, chopped
1-2 Tbsp olive oil
1-2 Tbsp white wine vinegar
salt and pepper to taste

Christina's vote: "This salad made me quite sure that life is what you make it"

Hitchhikers Guide to Grad School Salad

"So, what's next?" Dave asked, as I stood across from him in his office. I had two heavy shoulder bags strapped over each shoulder, so that they crossed my chest forming an X like a bandoleer. This is my standard going-to-work look, and it makes me feel like I am actually headed for combat. Dave was still wearing his bike tights and shoes with the little clips on the toes, as though work was just a little break in his day before returning to his real career in adventure sports.
"Well" I said, looking up at the clock "I have to get some samples run, and then I was thinking that I might have some time during lunch to go for a run". I looked back at Dave. He appeared to be having one of those moments when you can't decide whether to interrupt a person to clarify your question, or just let them lead the conversation away from your desired destination.

"No, that's not what I meant" he said "I mean, what happens after the salads?"
"Oh. Um.. well last year I did 'Soup on Sunday's' and then '28 days of dinner at home' as part of another blog "Leafy Reader"... but I think after this I should probably just focus on school." I said, allowing myself to convey my feelings of guilt for spending time and energy on something outside of grad school.

I am not sure where I was when it happened, but somewhere along the line I have picked up a guilty conscience, and I have been carrying her like a hitchhiker along the road to my degree. It doesn't matter that I work long hours both at work and at home, my guilty conscience stays with me, and chastises me for not focusing all of my energy on a single goal.

"Who do you think you are?" She says "you are never going to get anywhere if you don't focus your efforts." Then she likes to point out all of my deficits, and remind me that even the most intelligent people reduce their outside lives to near nothing while pursuing their doctorate.

"This is protein boot camp" one of the post docs had told me one day. She was standing over my shoulder, and I found myself fumbling with my pipetter while trying to work out a western blot protocol. "And you need to start getting manic about it if you are ever going to get this figured out. When it starts to invade your dreams, that's when you know you are on the right track."

I didn't have to take this to heart, but I was compelled. The following week, after working long days in the lab and reading about blotting techniques at night, I had a dream about western blots, and actually felt a moment of pride.

Guilt is a terrible feeling, and is particularly cumbersome when it chooses to accompany things not particularly guilt worthy. Feeling guilty for robbing a bank makes a certain amount of sense, and the bearer might feel that they got a fair deal. Feeling guilty for working too hard just seems unfair. A friend of mine once pointed out that senseless guilt goes by another name.

Shame.

Later in the afternoon, I tiptoed away from my western blot and headed out to meet Dave for a short run. "I was thinking more about what's next" I said, "I think I want to write a book, or maybe a cookbook, or maybe both. Christina suggests that I work on it the way I have been working on blogging, a little bit each day."

Hitchhikers Guide to Grad School Salad
1/6 head romaine lettuce
1 red pepper, diced
1 bulb fennel, quartered and sliced
10 heirloom cherry tomatoes

Dress with:
3/4 cup whole plain yogurt
1/4 cup Greek yogurt
3/4 cup blue cheese or Gorgonzola cheese
1 Tbsp tarragon
1/2 tsp apple cider vinegar
black pepper
1 shallot, diced (or 1 Tbsp red or yellow onion)

Christina's vote: "This salad made me blue"

Talk Show Salad

Jesse arrived from California with a small suitcase filled with "my importants" as he calls them. Jesse's importants consist of a few chipped back to the future toys, his "Men At Work" albums, an "I dream of Jeannie" costume with matching bottle, a talking ET doll, and a package of cigars. The fascination he has with "Back To The Future" is incredibly fitting, because Jesse himself is like a living, breathing, visitor from the past. Since we are roughly the same age (Jesse is about 5 years older than me), he is like a visitor from my past. He has reintroduced many relics into my life, like spaghetti o's and phrases from old television commercials, like "Be cool, stay in school".

I was unloading the dishwasher when suddenly "wooh wooh wooh JERRY JERRY JERRY" permeated the air, and I felt the way I do when woken from a dream by a sudden volume increase of the television. It was as though I were suddenly sitting in the middle of a live studio audience. I looked up from the dishwasher and saw the forgotten face of Jerry Springer holding a microphone and an index card, and staring out from a screen at a grinning and poised Jesse Christensen. The camera panned to the audience members, who pounded their fists through the air as though they were knocking on some imaginary door. Jesse rocked back and forth, and threw his hands into the air also, but rather than make a fist, he allowed his fingers to fly loose. Each time his hands came forward he would slow his rocking a bit and for a moment he would hold with his hands outstretched as though he were a wizard casting spells. This gesture is not meant to imitate the characters in the peanut gallery on Springer, but is rather the way Jesse expresses his excitement for anything that he especially loves. I wondered if Jesse likes Jerry Springer because the people on the show seem to express their excitement in a similar way to him.

After being reminded of the existence of talk shows, I found myself compelled to surf through you tube, and watch clips of Tyra and Maurie the other night.

"What are you doing?" Christina asked, her tone serving as a reminder that I really don't have the time to devote to watching bad television shows.

"Ummm, I'm..weeeeell..you see.. this man is claiming to be a vampire..and um..Tyra is..never mind" I said, as Christina cocked her head to the side in a 'you'd better not complain to me about how stressed out you are after I just caught you watching this crap' gesture.

It was interesting, this business about vampires. The people on the show were claiming that being a vampire was an expression of their spirituality, and when phrased in that way, I began to draw comparisons between Vampirism and Christianity. Both religions contain a ritual of consuming blood, albeit the Christians use a more symbolic form of blood in the form of wine. Both stress the importance of meditation and prayer, while vampires retreat to their sensory deprivation chambers in the form of a coffin to do this, the Christians seem to prefer kneeling in the company of others. The Vampires on Tyra's show were talking about how they believe that they are spiritually connected to others, and that they feed off of others energy..to which I ask myself, who doesn't feed off of the energy of others (metaphorically speaking)?

Perhaps, with the help of a little of Jesse's energy, in a few more months, I will be fully immersed in my second childhood. Perhaps you will find me, in the winter months, running around the house in flannel pajamas, microwaving spaghetti o's and eating them, cross-legged, in front of the television set, fixated on some pregnant teenage mom lining up possible baby-daddy's for a paternity test.

Talk Show Salad
4 medium Yukon gold potatoes, cubed (about 2 cups)
Boil potatoes in a pot of water (enough water to cover potatoes). Reduce heat and simmer until potatoes are tender. Meanwhile...
Heat a frying pan and add
1 yellow onion
1 Tbsp grape seed oil
a large pinch salt
cook for about 5 min on high heat, then add
4 medium parsnips, peeled and sliced
cook for another 10 min on high heat (until parsnips get soft), then add
4 long skinny carrots, peeled and sliced cook for about 5 min more, adding 2 tsp mirin (Japanese cooking rice-wine)
By the time the carrots and parsnips are done, your potatoes should be done too. Drain the potatoes and toss everything together, adding 2-3 Tbsp olive oil and some salt. Add about 1 inch fresh grated ginger.
Serve warm or cold.

Christina's vote: "This salad reminded me that winter is coming."

Abstract Artist's Salad

"Could you make me a salad?" Christina asked absentmindedly, her eyes fixated on the monitor in front of her. It was 9:30pm, and we sat at our desks across from each other, back to back, lost in the noiseless clamor of loading screens as we clicked from one page to the next. The light coming through our office windows had long since faded, but neither one of us had gotten up to turn on the overhead lights. Instead we sat, the blue glow of our screens flickering over our skin, brightening and fading indecisively, the way a candle might toy with the features of a scribe.

I swiveled my chair and looked over at Christina. "Really?" I asked, in a mixture of excitement and confusion. I always feel a little tinge of giddiness when Christina asks me to cook for her, mainly because I love cooking for her and it doesn't happen all that often that she asks. It's not that she doesn't like my cooking, it's just that she has never really been big into food. After the initial wave of excitement, confusion slid in like a wake-boarder. 'Wait a minute.' I thought 'Aren't we supposed to be tired of salads?'

For the past 80 days we have had a new salad every day. Every day vegetables get pulled from our refrigerator, sculpted into funny shapes, arranged into a salad, lathered with dressing, photographed, and then set back into the refrigerator. There the plate sits, caged in plastic like a poodle waiting to be judged. Even after the judging, on any given day, one or two picked through plates of salad can usually be found squeezed into our refrigerator. They remind me of fallen beauty queens, their tangled leaves flattened by the weight of some cheese or dressing, their body robbed of precious jewels of avocado or chicken. Recently I have made it my personal mission to eat the forgotten remnants of these salads, eating sometimes two or three bowls of diced peppers and shriveled up carrots.

It has been months since Christina has asked me to make her a salad, and the words seemed out of place. "Really, do you want a salad?" I asked, opting not to take the tack of resentfully inquiring what is the matter with all of the uneaten salads sitting in the refrigerator presently. "Uh. No... not really. I don't know why I said that." She replied, and I realized that we have gotten to the stage where 90 salads are no longer a big production, but are now simply a part of the routine. Since our salad days are almost over, I decided to make this salad which is an abstract rendition of one of Christina's favorites.

Abstract Artist's Salad
1/4 head romaine lettuce
1-2 cups purple cabbage, chopped or shredded
4 small sliced carrots
1/2 avocado cut into squares

Dress with:
3 Tbsp toasted sesame oil
1 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
1/2 Tbsp lime juice
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tsp raw honey
1/4 tsp tamari soy sauce

Christina's vote: "This salad was fun"

Gingerly Sweet Year Salad

The blood of the beet threatens with stains of colorful proportions, but reminds me that things are not always as they appear. Sometimes the seemingly insurmountable problems in life wash away easily, like beet juice. As the pink juice loosens from my hands and runs down the sink, and I am reminded that stress is a boastful child who targets with weapons not in his possession. The danger comes when I try to dodge one of his imaginary bullets and end up jumping into a creek.

With just two days until a grant deadline at work, I relax. I have worked long, hard hours. I have made a lot of progress, but I am not going to make my deadline. At the thought of this, I picture a grinning child with a slingshot ready to land a rock between my eyes. His freckly cheeks turned into a sadistic grin. I start to feel my heart race, and my palms sweat. Before I begin planning my escape, I am reminded to pause and look at it from another perspective. The boy is just an illusion that I have created. The situations that life presents can't be more powerful than the meaning that I assign to them.

Yesterday at the farmers market Sara Rice demonstrated some recipes for celebrating Rosh Hashanah. Being uninformed about Jewish cooking and customs, I stood beside her asking all sorts of naive questions, like "What does Kosher mean, really?" and "I have heard that this holiday is two days long, how much of that time is typically spent feasting?"

I felt like a complete idiot, but I learned a ton. Sara explained that Rosh Hashanah is a time of atonement for the Jews. It is the time of year for going up to the people in your life and asking for forgiveness. Sweet foods are typically eaten at this time, to welcome in a sweet new year. Round foods are also encouraged, as a symbol of fertility and new growth. Sara cooked recipes using carrots, raisins, apples, and honey. I was inspired by the idea of asking forgiveness, in particular as it applied to my problems of being over committed at work and at home. This salad was inspired by Sara's demo.

Gingerly Sweet Year Salad
Peel and slice 4 small beets (mixed varieties)
Heat a pot of water, and blanch the beets (boil for about 4 min). Shock them in cold water.
Peel and slice 4 small carrots (either slice them small, or blanch them too. Whatever you prefer)
Mix beets and carrots together, and dress with
1 tsp honey
1/4 tsp ume plum vinegar
1/4 tsp rice vinegar
1/2 tsp grated fresh ginger

Christina's vote: "This salad made me want to run with the bulls"

Red Quinoa Tabouli Salad

I woke up in near darkness and stared at the bright banana sliver in the sky, marveling at how the silvery light of the moon has begun sticking around for breakfast again. I reached for my sweatshirt and pulled on long pants before slamming the windows shut and heading to the kitchen to turn on the tea kettle. The refrigerator was stuffed full of vegetables, round and yellow, green and leafy, tangled, long and bright. Root vegetables knocked against my crisper drawer. They tumbled around like caged animals wrestling. I took a moment to think about them, then decided that I am not ready to move out of summer just yet.

I shut the refrigerator door and turned on my heel to stare at the counter top, where garlic bulbs and tomatoes crowded out every inch of space. A few months ago, a tomato was a rare and expensive treasure, saturated with the concentrated flavor of the summer sun baking in a field. Now they overwhelm my kitchen, and since I lack sufficient foresight to stuff them into jar and save them for the wintery days to come, I simply have let them take over.

I stared at the tomatoes and the garlic for a few minutes, then remembered the cucumbers and the cilantro in the fridge. The tomatoes I have are all heirloom, some purple and yellow, some orange and red, some not resembling tomatoes at all. The cucumbers I have also consist of many varieties in yellow, pale white, and traditional bright green.

I lay out all the ingredients for today's salad on my cutting board, and closed my eyes to conjure the message I wanted to convey with today's salad. The tea kettle whistled, and waves of heat warmed my chest as I reached over the burner to turn it off. Warmth. The salad needs warmth. I pulled out a pot and turned on a pot of water to boil. Here is what emerged.

Red Quinoa Tabouli Salad
1 cup red quinoa
1 Tbsp olive oil
1/8 tsp salt
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups water

Heat oil and salt and add garlic. Add dry quinoa and stir until quinoa releases nutty aroma. Add water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer (covered) until quinoa is cooked.

In a separate bowl, mix together
2 small cucumbers
2 Roma tomatoes
1 small bunch cilantro
1 minced clove garlic
zest and juice from a small lemon
2 Tbsp rice vinegar
3 Tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper

When the quinoa cools, add the quinoa.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me wonder why the cows came home."

Snapshot Salad

The air had a snappy chill to it, and I spent the morning navigating the long way around the shady tents at the farmers market, desperate to stay in the warm bath of sunlight. It was the sort of weather that invited stealing extra minutes at the sink to feel the warm water running over your hands, to avoid the shock of a cold air dry. The morning flew by in a flash, and I relished every moment of it. We had a Chef from Trinidad who prepared salmon cakes and a raspberry trifle, which caused the children to flock like seagulls when it came time to sample. Some friends took a picture:

When the demo was over, I took a moment to stand in the center of the market and enjoy a roasted ear of corn. I felt like a little kid having a snack after a busy morning of play.

I spent the rest of the day in a dark lab, mixing up chemicals, and watching as the liquids blended into each other. It looked similar to the way cream dances through iced coffee, like swimming angles.

The postdocs in my lab frequently use cooking analogies when they are trying to teach me something new. At first I thought they were just trying to speak my language, but now I understand the similarities. Lab work is a lot like cooking, you have a protocol (like a recipe) to follow, but their are no guarantees that the protocol will work on every given day. A scientist needs to use all their senses when running an experiment, much like a cook needs to be entirely present when cooking. The hours flew by in the lab.

When I got home there was a nice surprise waiting for me. Christina had retrieved some of my favorite of her pieces, and hung them above my desk:






Snapshot Salad
1/4 head romaine lettuce
1 corn cob, raw, with the kernels cut off
1/2 avocado, peeled and sliced
2 heirloom Roma tomatoes (or any tomato that you like)
1 white patty pan squash, cut into pieces
4 sliced tomatillos (peel the outer shell)
1/2 cup cilantro, chopped

Dress with:
3 Tbsp grape seed oil
1 Tbsp lime juice
1 tsp apple cider vinegar
1 clove mashed fresh garlic
1 tsp honey
fresh ground pepper

Christina's vote: "This salad defines creative"

Center Salad (or Chicken and Watercress Salad)

We trotted through the woods at an even pace, like two horses tied to a cart. Every so often we would have to break stride and flail our arms out to the side in order to navigate through squishy puddles of mud, which were left by the rain that had dragged through the woods earlier in the day. Mud hurled itself up the backs of my calves and dried there, stowing away for an adventure out of it's wilderness home.

"Actually, I consider myself to be more of a Buddhist" my running partner said, thoughtfully, as we discussed our thoughts on religion. We silently chose between two paths of what would be the first of many forks.
"I like meditating. I find that it is a lot like running." He continued.
"I meditate while I run" I said, excitedly. The conversation topic had turned from descriptive religion (as in 'I am a Buddhist', or 'I am...fill in the blank', to practical religion (as in 'this is what I do to help me feel more connected'). We passed another fork, where we had the option of whether to shorten our loop, or go the long way. We chose the long way. My running partner had his five fingered shoes on, and he commented on how he could feel the mud squishing in between his toes. I wiggled my toes, which were wrapped in socks and squeezed up tight inside little leather cages. I regretted not bringing my five fingers along.

"Do you still go to the meditation center?" I asked, turning my attention from my feet.
"No" he replied "and I find it is really hard to keep a regular practice going without it." I was reminded of what someone told me once, about how they remembered to meditate.
"You could try throwing your shoes far underneath your bed at night. That way, when you get up in the morning and go to put on your shoes you will have to get on the floor. While you are down there, you will be reminded to meditate!" I said, trying to be helpful.
"Ha ha that's funny" he replied "It's strange that I forget to meditate. I find it to be so useful when I actually remember."
"Useful how?" I asked.
"Well, it's kind of like this. All day long, we go around telling ourselves stories about what is happening. Someone doesn't like us. Something needs to be finished. Something needs to be organized or controlled. The world is dangerous, or scary, or wonderful. People are mean, or kind, or vindictive, or needy. The story may change, but the reel plays continuously. When I meditate, I get a chance to watch the reel and see it for what it is. A story. A drama. Meditation gives me a perspective in my life that I can carry out into the rest of my day."

I smiled inwardly, thinking about my own little dramas, and the times when I have seen them as illusions. We blew passed the final fork in the path, and completed the circle around the island. Then we turned and climbed the long hill back to work.

Chicken and Watercress Salad
1 split chicken breast, bone in, both halves (drizzle with olive oil and bake in the oven at 400 degrees for 25 min. Remove skin and cut into bite sized pieces)
1 cup chopped watercress
1 Tbsp mayonnaise
Mix ingredients together. Serve with fresh heirloom cherry tomato wedges or sliced cucumbers.

Christina's vote: "This salad made me want to prune a bonsai tree"

Anything Helps Salad

It was pitch black, yet the alarm had gone off several times already. I rolled out of bed and stared out into the dark blue abyss. A heavy cold rain was pouring down. I hurried to get dressed and stumbled down to my car. My eyes were puffy, and refusing to participate in the day as a rebellious gesture against a deceptive sky.

I was already later than intended, so I stopped at a gas station for throat lozenges and something to drink. Behind me stood a woman in her mid thirties with fluffy short haircut. She had on khaki pants and a tan, rain jacket.
"Is that all you want?" I heard her say.
"Mhhhhm" A man answered, in a gruff voice. I turned slightly sideways so i could spy over my other shoulder. The man she was talking to was tall, with deeply creased, leathered skin. He had long, coarse, gray and white hair, and shaggy eyebrows. His eyes were set far apart. They were somewhat cat like. He had a beard and a moustache, and his rosy cheeks were perched high on his face. He reminded me of a greasy, dirt-caked version of the coca cola Santa clause.

I stepped off to the side and got ready to head out the door. A giant backpack with a rolled up sleeping bag was blocking the exit. I assumed it belonged to the man, as the amount of dirt on the man matched with the amount of dirt caked on the sleeping bag. I pushed the door open, stepped over the bag, and left. When I got back into my car, I looked up for the man leaving the gas station. Clearly he was homeless, and this woman had offered to buy him something to eat. I thought about the times when I have offered to buy food to a homeless person looking for money. Usually my request is met with hostility. 'I don't need your food.' Their eyes would unmistakably say, 'What I need is what I asked you for. Your money. Give it to me, or I will make you feel like a worthless horrible guilty monster.'

I relaxed in my car for a minute, watching for the door. I half expected the man to walk out and then walk back in and return whatever it was she bought for him. I started up my windshield wipers, to get a better view. The radio clicked on, and a man's calming voice was reading something aloud on air. I continued my stakeout.

In a few moments, the door burst open and the man emerged. His face had risen to a bright zenith of sheer elation. He looked both giddy and nervous, as though he were a little boy keeping a newly opened present away from his siblings' greedy hands. He walked in full strides, holding a gigantic sub under his armpit as though it were a football. I had been wrong about him, he really did want food. Had he tried to panhandle me, I probably would've ignored him and he would've continued to be hungry until somebody decided to trust in his story. I looked for the woman, but she had already exited out a different door. I made a mental note to suspend my prejudices the next time I see someone on the street with a sign that says "homeless, hungry, anything helps."

Anything Helps Salad

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Cook 1 split chicken breast (2 halves) bone in skin on for 20-30 min (you can keep the heat high if you leave the skin on, because the skin will keep the chicken from getting dry).

Mix together 1/4 head romaine lettuce, chopped
2 carrots, sliced (peeled or not..your choice!)
1 red-green pepper, diced
1/2 avocado cut into bite sized pieces
1/4 head broccoli (about 1 cup) broken into pieces
2-3 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil (this is a huge part of the flavor of the salad, so use one that you really like the taste of!)
1-2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
salt and pepper liberally.

Christina's vote: "This is what I would call a salad meal"

Knock It Off Salad

It was a huge mistake, and one that I am likely to be paying for, for decades.

We stood by the elevator, dressed in our workout clothes. I wore shorts and a tank top, and had my hair pulled into a ponytail. Jesse was wearing long shorts hiked up high and white tube socks stretched out long. Jesse is tall and slim, with blond thinning hair, long arms, and large hands and feet. He has blue slanted eyes, and prominent child-like dimples that appear when he smiles, or smirks, which is most of the time. Jesse has autism, and enjoys repeating phrases that he picks up. A few months ago Christina and I talked about getting a parrot. That was before Jesse came to live with us. Now we thank our lucky stars that we never followed through with the parrot adoption, as already we hear ourselves echoing through the apartment, our voices a few octaves lower and projected theatrically out of Jesse's voice box.

We were waiting for the elevator to open, so that we could go down to the gym for our nightly workout. "You know what your gonna get? Your gonna get a one way ticket back to your parents!" Jesse said, for about the thousandth time. I still don't remember what movie this is from, but I am thinking 'Clifford'..or 'jingle all the way' two of his favorites. "Emily, what does 'a one way ticket back to your parents mean?'" "Jesse, I have already answered that question. and answered it. and answered it. I am not answering it again." I said. Jesse stood smiling, and looked nervously down and to the right.

We stood in silence for awhile. Then Jesse began inching up behind me. He was testing me. Jesse loves the smell of women's hair, but he knows he is not supposed to go around sniffing people. He began inching closer. He towered over my shoulder, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that he had a sneaky looking grin on his face.
"Smell your haiiiir" he sang.
"No Jesse, you may not" I said.
"Why nooooot?" He asked innocently, but his face betrayed the innocence in his tone with a guilty sparkle in his eye. He scuffled in closer, leaning in ever so slightly.

That's when it happened. The words flew out of my mouth before I realized their significance. Actually, in all fairness, to most people they hold very little significance at all, but to Jesse (as I had recently discovered) this particular grouping of words hold a special meaning. There are certain phrases that trigger Jesse, getting him so upset that he obsesses over them. The obsession can last for days, or months, or....years.

"Jesse!!!" I whirled around just as Jesse was gently lifting my ponytail with the fingers of his giant hand and gingerly bringing it up to his nose.

"knock it off!"

Immediately after I said the words I regretted it, knowing that I would never hear the end of it and that for years to come Jesse will be telling the story about how sometimes Emily says 'knock it off' to him.

"wha?? did you just say knock it off to me???"
"yes I did" I said
"why did you say knock it off to me?"
"Because I don't like having my hair sniffed" I stood my ground. Jesse stared down at the floor of the elevator, looking stunned. He looked sadly up at me
"sixteen days ago you said knock it off to me too." He said. I had forgotten. "Why do you say knock it off to me?" I had committed a crime in Jesse's eyes. A horrible horrible crime for which he would punish me by being an inconsolable victim. He flailed around on the exercise bike, gesturing wildly, pointing at imaginary characters and shooting me wounded looks every so often. After 40 min on the bike, I asked Jesse how he was doing.
"You said knock it off to me. Come on, what's the matter with you?" Jesse said, no doubt repeating something he had heard somewhere and looking seriously injured. I couldn't take it anymore. I sincerely apologized, and hoped that he would decide to drop his tantrum. He looked me soberly in the eye, and spoke assertively.
"I don't like it when people say knock it off to me."
"Okay Jesse, I am sorry." I said, knowing full well that the story had already been imprinted in Jesse's mind, and that I will be forever made to regret ever saying those three little words.

Knock It Off Salad
mix together:
3 long thin carrots, sliced
1 large red pepper, diced (the one I used was not fully ripe, so it is red and green
2 cups soaked and cooked, or 1 can mixed salad beans (if using a can, rinse them well)

In a frying pan, add:
1/4 tsp salt
3 Tbsp grape seed oil
1 small head broccoli, broken into pieces
3 cloves garlic
Heat and cook until broccoli is bright green, let cool, then mix broccoli with the other veggies.

Dress with 2 Tbsp white wine vinegar and 1 Tbsp grape seed or olive oil. Add a few sprigs of fresh thyme!

Christina's vote: "This salad is zesty!"