Linen + Plastic

Two types of tablecloths grace my dining room table, depending on my mood. On this blog I write about all things food, some fit for foodies and others ripe for roadies.

Monday, February 8, 2010

First Encounter with Salad

I was a picky kid. And hyper-active. Early in my formative years, my parents gave in to my persnickety demands in tit-for-tat exchange for my remaining calm at the dinner table. Meat, cheese, cereals, and starches were almost universally tolerated; vegetables an inconsistent story: peas, corn, and broccoli – yes; carrots, cauliflower, and turnip – no. Salad? Definitely not.

My mother tried every trick. She made that classic argument about tomatoes—"if you like them in ketchup and spaghetti sauce, how could you not love them plain?" I was unconvinced. She added cheddar to the salad bowl, but I was unyielding. Then, a moment of genius—she found a hearty, tomato-based Russian dressing that came as close to barbecue sauce as any salad dressing could. At that age, I believed everything was better with Bullseye.

She made her pitch: "Just try it, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to finish it."

She thought she had the problem licked.

I remember the scene in detail. In the living room, on a TV tray, instead of at the dining room table. Early for dinner, sun shining through the picture window. A small bowl of iceberg. Diced tomatoes. Wafers of cucumber. Globs of blood-red dressing that matched her description in hue and aroma--it could have been smeared on spareribs. I remember being tentative, fearful I might lose the battle and admit salad to my dining repertoire.

The first bite was a surprise, the dressing a perfect match to my tastes. The lettuce wasn’t half-bad, either—a curious texture, crisp and clean, rather bland but definitely not awful. Cucumbers I already liked; slathered in near-barbecue sauce they tasted fantastic. And the tomatoes… interesting. My stomach did not turn.

Mom waited at the edge of her seat.

I bunched up my face, proclaimed my distaste, and pushed aside the plate.

Labels: LinenCuisine, Memoir