Here’s a random piece I wrote around easter time this year. I enjoy David Sedaris very much and have read practically all of his books. He has a genius way of writing about aboslutely anything. This was my first attempt at trying my hand at his style.
I didn’t start eating salads until I was in my late 40’s. Rabbit food my father used to call it, shying away from that part of the menu, looking more towards Goulash or something equally spicy and messy.
Nowadays, I rarely eat leftover salad. They should be eaten when freshly served. Anything past an hour of sitting on the table, and it’s old. It loses its crispness, its raison d’etre, and with its dressing already soaked in a bit too long, it becomes limp and soggy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these days I really enjoy them, I’ve acquired a taste for them, but I place a time limit on them. No sooner have I come back from the bathroom at a restaurant, or in these Covid times, my own home, and I turn my nose up at the sight of it.
I admit, I am a salad snob.
I moved into a new apartment recently and everything feels new, with the approach of spring in the air. I made an extra-large mixed salad on Friday evening, to go along with a new recipe I’d found on one of these web-sites I started following as part of my newest weight-loss plan. I have 9 days before I turn fifty, so surely if I eat what these experts tell me, I’ll have lost at least a pound a day, which will have me at the same weight I was when I was 12, by my 50th birthday. I can’t go wrong.
I’m very careful about the way I toss my salads. I prefer the crumbled bits of feta cheese to remain just so. Crumbled. Not mushed. I don’t like it when the spinach leaves stick to the bottom of the bowl. I make sure the chopped vegetables are scattered evenly throughout, some of them a delightful surprise underneath all the greenery, poking their colourful heads out when you least expect them to.
Ah, there’s another yellow pepper! Just the sight of it nestled beside that juicy looking cucumber slice is enough to make anyone excited.
Oooh, how fun, a walnut. The sheer crunchiness of it, swirling around my mouth and combined with a chewy cranberry, sends my tastebuds into a frenzy.
I am not making love to my salad. I am trying to lose weight.
The recipe I’d found was one of several I was hoping to prepare that Easter Weekend. It was called Anti-Inflammatory Meatballs. The title itself led me to believe that by eating these tasty delicacies, my bulging hips will magically deflate.
On Saturday, I’d picked out another proven-to-lose-weight recipe. Chicken Paella with cauliflower rice. I’d taken some chicken out of the freezer on Thursday night, in anticipation of it being thawed out by Saturday afternoon. I already had the required head of cauliflower to prepare the rice that caused one’s flabbiness to instantly vanish.
As I put my worn old apron on, I noticed there was a lingering smell of old cardboard boxes wafting through the apartment from the recent move. I thought some fresh tulips would do the trick, so I went for a short walk to pick some up.
As I walked back into the apartment, Nala the cat greeted me with a loud where’s my bloody dinner meow, followed by an engine-like purr that sounded as it came from deep within her belly. Unfortunately for her, I ignored her plea for food and attention, due to the pungent smell coming from…somewhere. I couldn’t quite figure it out. There’s an awful bang of something in here. Commentating to Nala in my best Dublin accent, I quickly realized she wouldn’t have a clue what I’ve said. Where’s my effing dinner, she meowed. I’m quite certain my Dublin accent has rubbed off on her.
I quickly snipped the not-yet-bloomed flowers at the ends, slanted of course (it seemed like the right thing to do, although I can never remember why). I filled up a Tesco-designed vase with water and submerged the flowers, placing them on the kitchen table which was still covered in all the ‘stuff’ you find in THAT DRAWER. Cello tape, used batteries, elastic bands, and toothpicks from the old apartment drawer had been placed in a box, and deposited on the new apartment’s kitchen table. Junk, that would find its way into its own drawer soon.
But that smell. I opened the fridge. I checked the crisper for old vegetables. All seemed fine. No mouldy cheese. Most things were in cartons and in date. The defrosted chicken was in a blue plastic bag. I wondered if I’d put it back in the fridge soon enough after defrosting. I chose to believe it was fine. I closed the fridge. The smell lingered. If I was at home in Dublin, I would exclaim to Nala ‘there’s an awful BANG of something in here’. I quickly realized that Nala wouldn’t understand what I was saying, so I went ahead and said it aloud. With emphasis on BANG. In my best Dublin accent. Nala didn’t care. She and I both knew it was the chicken.
There was a silver salad bowl balancing awkwardly on the top of a crate of eggs. I carefully pulled it down and to my surprise, the cling film had remained solid and the salad actually looked ‘ok’. I smugly congratulated myself on yesterday’s assembled Rabbit Food delight. The only tossing necessary this evening was the chicken being flung into the rubbish bin.
The next morning, I searched THAT DRAWER’s contents for the measuring tape. My hips were down two centimetres. I’m nearly fifty. And slimmer. All thanks to that leftover salad.
I wonder what David Sedaris would think of this piece. I suspect he’d tell me to re-write it and include more conversation from Nala the cat, or maybe discuss more of the contents in the junk drawer. Either way, I had fun writing it. Until next time!
