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!"