With the heat soaring to 100 degrees again in the Heartland, salad has been figuring prominently on our table. This afternoon represented our new typical: We dined on salad at an Italian bakery and restaurant. We felt like wilted Romaine lettuce from the heat walking from the car to the entrance door. Usually we dine on a Panini in the deli café after purchasing Italian meats, cheese, and pastries. Today we opted for its restaurant decorated with faux grape arbors, but lovely scenery overlooking voluptuous potted plants on the patio.
Salad is not the food about which I dream. Aside from an artfully crafted Caprese Salad with tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes, not those tasteless hothouse ones, fresh mozzarella this side of paradise topped with fresh basil, salads do not figure prominently on my horizon. Truth be known, I indulge periodically in a refreshing Cobb Salad too. Fruit, on the other hand, quenches my thirst, and is colorful and delicious when newly plucked. Upon fruit, I may wax poetic; on salad, not even a limerick emerges.
Kelley, my multi-talented sister-in-law, makes world-class salads that are rhapsodies in themselves. Even though she willingly shares her recipes with me, I seem to lack the salad knack she possesses. Even my daughter makes salads an event, like her aunt. My talent, I like to point out, lies elsewhere in the culinary landscape.
Even though I may be left in the salad stems, I plan to continue to partake of salads my family members make, relishing with gusto each bite.
Ciao for now.