Salad, eh?

We didn’t always eat salad in my house. I don’t remember when the bowl of greens dressed in a simple vinaigrette first made an appearance… my mother seems to think she always made it, but I know better. I remember not liking salad at all, but then at some point, hot veggies started being replaced or accompanied by a huge salad in a glass bowl, greens, oil, vinegar, mustard, salt, pepper. My sister and I started eating salad all the time. My brother still doesn’t like it.

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I went to a boarding high school, where we ate cafeteria food three meals a day. The bread was stale. The soup was salty. I used to eat five or six oranges a day because the fresh fruit was usually good. My friends used to make fun of my tendencies to pick one item of produce and stick to it for every meal for a few weeks, until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Bowls of tiny cherry tomatoes. Plates of apples sliced with peanut butter. Sticky rice with soy sauce. Spinach nuked in the microwave and covered with salt and black pepper. Romaine lettuce with feta and balsamic vinaigrette.

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When I went to France for the first time, I lived with a host family in the north. On Wednesdays, we ate lunch at home. Usually chicken nuggets with mashed potatoes that came from a box. And salad. Endive and apples with cider vinaigrette. Beets and goats cheese. Carottes rapees. Grated celery root with mayonnaise.

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In college, I got my first kitchen. In the beginning, I reveled in being able to cook for myself. After awhile though, I hated trudging down to the 24-hour Dominion to buy food. I would buy huge heads of lettuce and a few wedges of cheese and assemble 4, 5, 6 salads a day. I accumulated a stack of bowls at my desk, still slick with oil from the homemade vinaigrette my grandmother taught me to make. I would work all night and go to bed at sunrise, having eaten salad while the sky was still dark.

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The Canadian is gone. He’s gone to Spain, then to Argentina. I’ll see him again in a few months, but I don’t have the heart to cook anything anymore. When he was here, I never had to think about being hungry–he was always hungry first. He had a “hungry noise,” a low-pitched whine like a puppy, and then he would make a sad face. What do you want? The answers varied, but there were only a few options. Chili. Eggs and potatoes. Tuna casserole-ish. Pasta with pesto. Pasta with sausage. Pâté and cheese. I rolled my eyes when I went into the kitchen, but the truth was, I loved when he asked me to make him things. Especially when he stared at me after cleaning his bowl, hoping there were seconds. There always were. I know how to feed the Canadian.

I’m back on salads now. I didn’t eat too many when the Canadian was here… Whenever I tried to make some to get some vitamins, he looked at me like I was a little crazy, and besides, why make salad when I’m already making something else for him? But now I don’t have the will to cook for one, so I assemble. Endive and beets. Romaine and parmesan. Frisée and brie. I’ll be home in a few days, where I’m expected to contribute gratin dauphinoise and sambusik cookies to the Christmas meal. Until then, I’m slicing apples on top of lettuce and calling it dinner.