DRINKING… because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad
Though I’m Irish, with an apparently innate tendency to story tell and drink…
this post is not to disparage salad, but to praise it as metaphor.
First of all, salads have more complexity and varieties than drink. Don’t challenge me on that statement, just go along with the theme. This post is not intended to spark controversy and duels… who wants to die stuffing one’s gullet with salad and/or drink!?
There are a myriad of salad components: iceberg lettuce, baby greens, frise, and Romaine. Nuggets of cooked corn, carrots (sliced into rings or sticks or chopped), and the perennial burp-inducers: cucumbers. Tomatoes, sliced hard-boiled egg, and bits of bacon. Anchovies may be your choice, but they’re not mine.
There’s an array of salad genres: Jello, spinach, chopped, and Nicoise. With a variety of containers: platters for a ‘spread’ to replace dinner, ceramic and wooden bowls large and small. Some of the bowls come with matching forks and spoons to toss the ingredients. Some salads are served with tongs. Prep techniques differ, too: toss, sliced, stir. Chop precisely, to not nick one’s own thumb. Salivate, taste-test… and do it all over again.
To season or not. To pepper or not at all. Sprinkle exotics like cardamon or cinnamon with Saigon. To add meats: strips of beef, chunks of chicken, or shrimp.
Salads can be dressed, laid bare, or all jumbled up. Salads are healthy, drinking is not. One builds you up, one takes you down.
One is cathartic… which one do you think it is? Which crafts the best story for/with you? Reply in the comments – inquiring minds want to know.