Dill-icious Cabbage Homecoming Salad

Giant neon signs lined the airport terminal, and I scanned them for directions to a decent cup of coffee. The Boston airport is free of the corporate emerald green of Starbucks, the beatnik black and red of Dunn Bros, and the campy brown and blue of Caribou. Instead, the early morning lines snaked like snap beads in front of the cartoon orange and pink colors of the coffee of my childhood. The Dunkin Doughnuts. I stood in line anticipating a trip down memory lane.

White styrofoam cups stood in height formation on the counter top. Super sized is the new large. Vanity sizing has hit both clothing and food. I ordered a medium coffee with cream, and then marveled as the teenager across the counter flipped a switch on the cream dispenser and half of my glass darkened. He then poured the coffee. The concoction tasted like exactly what it was, cream diluted with a tiny bit of coffee-flavored water. Nostalgia can only add so much flavor, the truth about my beverage was detectable. It was terrible, and it made me feel sick.

In desperation for a positive reconnection with old times, I went back for a chocolate doughnut. That only made me feel worse. The man sitting across from me was reading a running magazine and happily nibbling on a homemade egg sandwich. I had breakfast envy. I felt displaced sitting in that little chair in the airport. There were too many clocks, each one reading a different time. It was happy hour in one restaurant and breakfast in another. A woman walked by in surf shorts, dragging little children wearing flip flops. Passing her in the other direction walked a bearded man wearing a heavy winter sweater. All of the cues that remind me of where I stand and who I am, were confused by mismatched cues of time zones and weather.

The man across from me slowly, calmly turned the pages of his magazine and chewed on his sandwich. I finished my doughnut, tossed out what was left of the coffee and prepared to board the plane. As the plane made it's descent, so too did I. My lids drooped and my nerves felt raw. I had a stale and sour taste on the roof of my mouth. I felt depressed and irritable. Poor Christina had to greet me in my moodiness at the airport. I kept thinking about the mountain air, about being out in the trees, about the freshness I felt and the freedom of movement. My body was heavy and tired from the sugar. For dinner, I decided to make a light salad, and fill it with herbs which would pull me into the present. I used up every herb that we had left in the fridge.

Fridge cleaner cabbage salad
Chop 1/2 green cabbage
2 peeled diced carrots
add 1 large bunch dill, chopped fine
3 diced garlic scapes
2 chopped green garlic stocks
1 inch grated fresh ginger
1 Tbsp rice vinegar
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 tsp packed brown sugar
1 tsp ume plum vinegar
1 tsp lemon juice
1/2 tsp soy sauce

Christina's vote: "Creativity at its best"

Fajita Vacation Salad

The house was ablaze with clattering dishes, thumping suitcases, and scattered goodbyes. Now I sit overlooking the lake, sheltered from the cold morning air yet listening to the dull whir of the fan which had been neglectfully left on in the excitement of last nights dinner and this mornings departure. The horizon is pregnant with the morning sun, which has only begun its journey into the day and will soon be crawling across the lake to sit upon my lap. I will wait for it.

My family, which was once a playground of rides, cliques, and cash dispensers, is now filled with people. Beautiful and complex, each one a complete book of memories, that I have only just picked up to read. I want to bring each one to a quiet corner, and read them through from beginning to end, and see our world through their eyes.

"Isn't it funny" I said, while bringing a giant, colorful, vegetable stuffed fajita up to my face, "that we all grew up in the same house, yet have such different taste in food?" I looked over to my left and my right. I was wedged between my two older brothers, one of whom ate a slim packed white tortilla with chicken pieces and the other held a similar skinny white wrap with steak pieces hanging out of the sides. For them, the color in this particular meal would come in the form of little candy coated chocolate pieces that they would have for desert while the rest of us slurped down some homemade blueberry strawberry buckle. My older brother Jim slowly lowered his chicken fajita and looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "That's because we didn't grow up in the same house. By the time you and Andy came around, Tom and I were out of the house and mom and dad were gone. Nobody told you that you couldn't eat m&m's, which is probably why you don't want them."

It isn't entirely true that my parents were gone, but it is true that Andy and I didn't have any food rules as far as junk food is concerned. Perhaps this is why m&m's don't give me the same sort of satisfaction of forbidden pleasure that they seem to give others.

In my family, nobody eats the same way. Dietary restrictions, political choices, and past food fears line the trails of our individual journey. They are planted like sign posts dictating what is food and what is not. Fajitas are a good way to offer options to everyone without cooking individually for each person.

Chicken fajita salad (feeds 8-10)
Marinade the chicken in
1/4 cup lime juice
3/4 cup olive oil
2 tsp fresh ground pepper
1/2 tsp salt
3 cloves garlic
1 Tbsp honey
After the chicken marinated for about 6 hours I turned it over to my father to grill. He is a fantastic grill chef.

Bean and corn salsa
In a saucepan, heat 1 tsp olive oil and add 1/4 yellow onion (diced small). Add 2 cloves minced garlic. Mix in 1 can black beans, rinsed and drained, and 1/4 tsp salt. Cook for about 4 min, then remove from heat and add the juice from 1/2 lemon. Let cool.

Dice and mix together
2 red tomatoes
2 yellow tomatoes
1 red pepper
1 bunch green onions
corn from 2 corn cobs, raw and cut off the cob
salt to taste
2 tsp pepper, or more
juice from a lime
chili powder (optional)

Fajita peppers
slice and cut in half
1 yellow pepper and 2 red peppers
Chop 1 red onion into large pieces
toss in olive oil and 2 cloves minced garlic
season with a pinch of salt and allow the mixture sit for about 30 min.
Heat a frying pan until it is very hot. Add a little olive oil and watch it slide around, then immediately add pepper mixture. You want the outside to char a bit, but the inside to retain some crunch. Cook for about 3 min, then remove from the heat.

Enjoy fajitas with all your favorite fixings with your family. The next day, you can build a fajita salad with the leftovers by mixing the peppers, salsa, and chicken with some nice lettuce from the garden. The salad needs no dressing, but if you want you can squeeze some extra lemon or lime juice over the top.

Christina's vote: "This salad was too far away"

Strawberry Thyme Salad

The smell followed me around all morning. Their summer sweetness wafted back and forth across the path as I pounded my feet along the asphalt through the sunny breeze of morning. It was there at the farm stand, permeating the air, overtaking the fresh cilantro, basil, and mint. Then again in the car they released a pungent fragrance, a constant reminder of the delicious flavors to come. The perfume bathed the interior of the car, lingering on my salivary glands, conjuring culinary fantasies. They are reeking with joy because it is their time.

Strawberries. When they are gone, they are replaced by stunt doubles. Giant and bland, with only a hint of fragrance. They come from Mexico, South America, and California. A special breed with an indestructible fiber skeleton. They are swollen with water, because bigger sells better, but the memories are more dilute.

The small and sweet little New Hampshire or Minnesota berries would never survive a flight across the country. They are the brilliant red queen of the farm. They command attention, refusing to let me leave them be. There is no need for dressing them up with cream and shortcake, balsamic vinegar, sugar or lime. On their own each bite comes packed with precious childhood memories- Young birthday parties, Saint Mark's Mayfair, Mrs. Vandyke's fruit tart, breakfasts with my cousins in Maine, sailing on the AJ Meerwald, last year's 4th of July salad.

Somewhere between who I thought I was and who I think I want to be, is who I am and who I have always been. In the flavor and the fragrance of strawberries, I can find that girl. She is sitting on a rock, her legs warmed against the dark stone. The sun sets on the horizon, the salty air blows by, and she wears strawberry stains on her shirt.

Strawberry Thyme Salad
The dressing
1/3 cup mayonnaise
1 Tbsp tamari (soy sauce)
1 Tbsp white wine vinegar
3/4 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 Tbsp balsamic
1 tsp Florida pepper (Penzy's) or ground black pepper and lemon zest
1 Tbsp fresh thyme

The salad
1 small head green leaf, red leaf, or romaine lettuce (probably romaine is best)
1 carrot, diced
1/2 cup strawberries, sliced

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

Runner's Playground Salad

In the early morning light, I went to the airport and got in an airplane bound for New Hampshire. Half asleep and wedged into my little seat, I looked for something to distract myself with. A magazine, the little safety card, my hardcover book, a neighbor with an 80's perm, a 11 year old child sitting in the window seat. The child was leaning her forehead against the little glass window, her jaw gaping, her wide eyes scanning the land below. I followed her eyes and marveled at the tufts of white cloud against the cartoon blue sky.

Suddenly I felt fully awake. We are flying. We are a group of people, sitting in little chairs and riding through the sky. THROUGH THE SKY!! The child had guided me to a sense of wonder. I managed to hold onto it until the whir of the planes ascent subsided, then I forgot my awe, and returned to my book.

The first thing I noticed when driving through New Hampshire were the pine tree studded mountains, they are groomed and green like a chia pet in full bloom. We drove over the hills and through the woods and to a little house on the lake where my family and nephews were lounging inside. My four year old nephew showed me his train set, and his toy cars. Then I went for a run.

The dirt trail was carved before me, like a wooden track and I felt myself being pushed along, as though a giant finger were digging into my back. I hugged close to the turns and allowed myself to be pushed. The trail opened up to a narrow road, which arched up and down and up again. I imagined myself in a child's toy world. I was a train car, I was moving, noticing, my wheels freely turning. I happened by a garter snake, it reminded me of a rubber toy. I chugged up a steep hill with jolted steps like a roller coaster climb, passed a horses pasture, past a patches of lavender, past a waft of manure, slowly, finally, I reached the top.

Then I was let go. My stomach did a summersault as it shifted from up to down and I went flying, arms flailing, down a steep hill, allowing my legs to turn over. It was quite a ride.

Lime cilantro dressing
3/4 cup chopped cilantro
Juice from 1 lime plus 1 Tbsp lime juice
1/4 tsp salt
2 Tbsp Extra virgin olive oil
1/2 tbsp brown sugar

Pour over
1 kohlrabi, peeled and cut into matchsticks
1 cup chopped purple cabbage

Christina's vote: "This salad put the clouds away"

Coffee Story Salad

The old man hunched over the table, scattered newspapers spread before him in a table cloth of gray and black. The bend in his back arched over so extreme that it appeared his head was growing out of his chest, and his ears were long and leathered. He hung his head and muttered into his coffee, which nearly graced the tip of his nose. His elbows were anchored firmly in frond of him, and splayed wide in a posture of open assertiveness. Every so often he would gesture, with his hands.

It was this gesturing that first caught my attention. I was waiting at the bar for my embarrassingly large coffee. Though I try to convince myself otherwise, a Starbucks is really just a glorified McDonalds, fast food overindulgence. I was planning to take my coffee and go, so that I could have the illusion of a nice relaxing morning coffee date without the actual nice relaxing morning..or the date. To some people the word coffee is a verb meaning the action of sitting together for a leisurely conversation, lasting anywhere from 1 to 24 hours. Christina and her family define coffee in this way. In Germany, take out coffee is still such a novelty that they actually distinguish "coffee" from "coffee to go". As my German professor used to say "Americans take something perfectly wonderful like a cappuccino, and put it in a paper cup so that they can walk around with it. It defeats the whole purpose of enjoying a cappuccino!" To me, coffee is a beverage that I consume to help me perform my daily activities, much like some people enjoy alcohol to help them perform nightly activities.

The gesturing caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. Next I noticed the mans deeply wrinkled skin and freshly groomed appearance. His hair was parted over to the left and was lined with tooth tracks from what was probably a small black comb. The chair across from him was empty, but he didn't seem to notice. He was eagerly relaying a story, and one that had probably been rehearsed thousands of times. "So then I lay the cards out on the table.." he said, cocking his head to the right and leaning in a bit, toward the empty chair across from him. Aside from the fact that he was talking to an imaginary friend, the man seemed perfectly normal. Besides that, the story sounded good. I had the sudden urge to rush over and fill the empty chair, but I didn't want to break his spell. I thought, maybe I could eavesdrop from another table, and I regretted that I didn't have time.

The stories of elderly people are worth listening to. They are like recipes that have been prepared many times and tested on multiple audiences. You just know that they are going to be good. I thought about this as I reflected on season 2 of 90 salads. I am just a baby in the salad world, and thankful for the audience I have. I hope that one day, when my recipes are tweaked and my skills are fully seasoned, some young people will happen by and fill the seat across the table from me to listen.

Sesame Tamari dressing
1/4 cup toasted sesame oil
1/4 cup vegetable oil (sunflower oil is nice)
1 Tbsp plus 1 tsp tamari
1 Tbsp rice vinegar
1 tsp raw honey
a touch of wasabi for kick (optional)

The salad
3/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup bean sprouts
3 medium carrots, diced or shredded
3/4 cup shredded purple cabbage
1 small head green leaf lettuce

Christina's vote: "This salad un-levels the playing field"

Dill-lime One More Time Salad

The six of us were gathered around two wooden tables, pushed together in the small, crisp demo kitchen of the co-op. The standing shadow that projected to the back of the room was mine, the rest of the shadows were hunched over, sitting tall, or scribbling on notepads. Dark green bottles of oil and vinegar were spread out before me, in a mottled array of shapes and widths. They were staggered like kindergartners in a classroom line-up. Had I been watching my shadow, I would have noticed how much I fidget when I teach, and how my hair refuses to remain in a ponytail. Had I been looking in from outside, I would have marveled at how the bright glow of the classroom lit up the large square window and cut through the warm dusk sky. Instead I stood staring at the bottles of oil, and feeling the sets of eyes which had only just begun tracing me to make an impression. I poured some olive oil into a tablespoon. A hand shot up in the air.

"Could you use an oil other than olive oil, because I find the flavor of olive oil to be too strong. Or is there one that you would recommend we use that is less strong?"

I put down the olive oil and reached for a different bottle."Yes, I like to use grapeseed oil. It has a flavor that is much milder and a more pale color and.."

I stopped mid-sentence. The oil I was pouring, which I thought was the grapeseed oil, was not pale, but bright blue. It looked like dish detergent. I checked the bottle- grapeseed -then checked the tablespoon- blue. I brought the spoon up to my nose and sniffed. I felt the room wince a little, no doubt because I was now sniffing the thing that they would soon be obligated (out of Minnesota politeness) to taste. In a moment of fear I wondered if someone was playing a trick on me, or if I had grabbed the wrong bottle. If I continued on with the class like nothing was amiss I might risk poisoning someone. As I floundered around up front, one of the students spoke up "is it supposed to be that color?" By this time I had the spoon up level with my eyebrows and I was inspecting it, cross eyed. I dropped the spoon and looked up, exhaling a large amount of air.

"No. I have never actually used this brand before." I confessed, feeling stupid yet relieved. Honesty has that effect on me. I took a taste of the oil. It had a greasy finish, which would swallow all of the delicate flavors of the rest of the evenings dressings.

For the remainder of the class, we discussed how the salads you make are only as good as the quality of the ingredients. Using the wrong oil for example, can result in the need to cover up off flavors with additional ingredients. This doesn't mean you have to buy the expensive oil, in fact, I think it is better not to. Expensive oils move off of the shelf slowly and have a higher risk of being spoiled by the time you open them. I go for a nice middle of the road oil, and try to buy small bottles of ones I have never tasted in case I don't like the brand.

The dressing for today's salad is one I had to make over, because I tried to use that blue green oil.

Dill lime dressing
4 Tbsp Salute Sante brand grapeseed oil
2 garlic scapes
1/4 tsp Dijon mustard
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1 pinch salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
1 1/2 Tbsp dill
1 Tbsp lime juice
lime zest
1 Tbsp sherry vinegar
1/4 tsp honey
Blend together in a food processor.

The salad
1 1/2 medium kohlrabi, peeled and cut into small cubes
2 carrots, peeled and diced
1 cup pea pods
1 small head red leaf lettuce

Christina's vote: "This salad screams 'I love Sunday!'"

Mountain Range Salad

With sharp crampons, stress creeps up soft elastic shoulders. She grapples the muscles with hooks and lines, pulling and twisting as she goes. When she reaches the throat she hangs and rests, gripping tightly, her legs and arms spread eagled. She makes you swallow hard. Up your jaw she continues, and you clench tight to support her weight. She drives her pick into your temples. She kicks open your eardrums, and the once filtered, clean sound enters in a wave of white noise. She is a subtle visitor, but the path she treads is jagged and rough. It is not until she dives from the summit, and you feel her little toes as they spring down and lift off from your forehead, that you realize she had ever set camp. When she is gone, you miss her weight, to which you had grown accustomed. Without her, you find you move easily and you have to relearn how to shift your balance. I stood in the middle of the crowd, feeling my new weight as stress repelled off of me.

I felt myself standing, I was a mountain among mountains. In my right hand, I was carrying a single ear of roasted corn. I held it by the husk, the charred black pointed leaves stuck out beneath my clenched fist like straw on a scarecrow. I had just finished a morning of work at the market, and for the first time in months I had nothing due, nowhere I had to be, no one I needed to meet with. I thought about how, if I wanted to, I could sit down on the stone wall and eat my corn while watching the people go by. I could eat it kernel by kernel if I felt like it. The thought made me giddy.

Walking through the market with nowhere to be, really made me feel connected. I stopped and asked questions. I tasted cheese from 3 different vendors. I pulled in the carnival smells. I shopped for salad ingredients. I was a mountain among mountains.

As I was leaving, I noticed an old Hmong woman sitting on a stool. She had deep wrinkles on her face. She wore a long dress with a kerchief on her head. She was shelling peas and smiling with her eyes. I thought to myself, 'that looks like a fun thing to do', so I bought some shelling peas.Then I made this salad.

Garlic Scape, Red Potato and Pea Salad
4 cups diced, cooked, red potatoes (cook in boiling water, drain, and then rinse to cool)
4 garlic scapes
1/2 cup shelled peas
2 green onions
2 Tbsp fresh dill
1/2 cup Greek yogurt
1/4 tsp soy sauce (for color)
1/2 tsp red wine vinegar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
Toss together and serve. Garnish with chive blossoms.

Christina's vote: "From God's ears to my lips"