This is news to me.

I was hungry, and it was 5:30 in the morning. So I looked into my coin jar, pulled out five quarters and headed to the minimart across from my apartment complex to buy a snack. Something meal-like but hopefully not terrible. I figured I’d kill about fifteen minutes deciding what to buy.

As it turns out, you can’t by anything with five quarters. I don’t mean the pickings were slim, I mean exactly what i said: you can’t buy anything.

I go down to the minimart from time to time when I’m up late, sometimes just to get out of the house, sometimes to satisfy an instant noodle craving, sometimes because nothing else is open. Maybe I’m going to the wrong convenience store but I was floored that there wasn’t a single thing I could buy with my five quarters.

Not macaroni and cheese. Not cup of noodles. Not an ice cream cone. Not a sandwich. Not a candy bar. Not a piece of pizza. Not a granola bar. Not a bag of pretzels. Not chewing gum. Not a pack of cigarettes. Not even a can of soda or a cup of coffee. Not even a hard, green banana. Nothing in that store totaled under $1.25 with tax.

Uh… what?

I used to think it was just vegetarians and vegans that had a hard time finding food we could eat when convenience called. I was so utterly wrong. Apparently omnivores can’t either because not even spam costs less than $1.25. This is a deeply disturbing discovery. Sure dads today must give their kids two dollars for a snack instead of the one our dads gave us, but that’s not the bit that bothers me. I’m bothered because there was only option left: McDonald’s Dollar Menu.

Call me crazy, but a hamburger — a whole patty of meat, two pieces of bread, and condiments — must cost more than a banana. It has to. Even if it’s just a plastic and corn model of a hamburger, logically it should cost more than a banana. Look at the raw ingredients. And yet, I couldn’t afford a slurpee at the 7eleven but I could afford a hamburger in ten minutes when the fast food joint next door opened.

There is something seriously wrong with this picture. It goes back to that whole real price of food rant I gave a while ago. I get it now, I understand why you’ve got no options when you’re from a low SES bracket. I get it. If I lived next to a 24 hour grocery store, the story might be different. But it might not. My options were already pretty limited at that hour but the choice is overwhelmingly one-sided. It’s math I’m not sure I really understand.

I went home hungry and scrounged up enough ingredients for half a cheese sandwich instead.

It’s that time of year again when the men on the subway do nothing but talk about how hot it is. The rags to mop your sweat start appearing in every woman’s hand instead of her purse. Uniqlo is sold out of quickdry and linen. 　夏です。It’s not a surprise really, since all the classic literature I can drum up bemoans Japan’s hot and muggy summers in great detail, and yet, it always seems to catch the Japanese off guard, like the heat wave is rolling in earlier and earlier each year.

So how does one deal with the oppressive heat of such a summer? With seasonal drinks at the kombini? With unagi-don on the Day of the Ox? Or with ice cold somen noodles in front of a fan on full blast?

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The Japanese will not give up their noodles, and I must say, I agree with their priorities. So even in the dead of summer, they’ve devised a way to eat ramen without getting a face full of steam. It’s called the tskumen set. In one bowl will be a pile of chilled noodles. In another bowl will be tepid broth. On a plate will be all the usual accouterments. This brilliant invention can be applied to any noodle of choice: ramen, soba, udon, and even somen.

Somen. These thin, soft, very chewy noodles can be tricky to eat, but if you keep at it, you’ll be rewarded with a satiation in summer that doesn’t leave you heavy and uncomfortable. After a day of sweaty sightseeing, I needed some relief, and when you’re in Nara, you eat the Miwa Somen. So I ate the miwa somen. It was delicious, by all means, and when it was followed by shaved ice, this cold luncheon was nothing short of pure bliss. I’d highly recommend giving miwa somen a try if you get the chance.

Top Chef has been in DC for some time now, and it got me thinking about challenges in the kitchen. While we like to think no one’s ever asked us to cook a five-star meal composed entirely from canned goods in under thirty minutes, there are plenty of quickfire challenges much closer to home. Whether an unexpected house guest or an in-law to impress, we’ve constantly had to avert disastre or pull a jackrabbit from a pot in culinary crises of our own. It made me think about what really makes one creative in the kitchen.

Top Chef would have you believe the fruit of Hawaii or the innate genius of the chef at hand are responsible for the final product, but in reality, the celebrity guest star is never the one to inspire the contestants. It’s the thirty minute time limit and the fifty dollar shopping budget. Or in my case, too many tomatoes.

My pilot garden this year has been an incredible success. Every plant has popped up lighting fast and produced the goods faster than I can pick them. It takes me longer to decide whether to pickle or roast my peppers then it does for new peppers to mature. Unfortunately, it also means that I’ve wound up with more peppers and tomatoes than I know what to do with.

Think baskets. Big, overflowing baskets. Every week. This is a problem I’m happy to have, but after the usual caprese salads it’s forced me to be more and more creative with my tomatoes lest they all go to waste before I can figure out how to squeeze them into every nook and cranny of my fridge. So far: tomato-apple chutney, sweet tomato relish, homemade ketchup, cold packed tomatoes, fresh salsa, pasta sauce, and of course all the soups, salads, and sandwiches I can muster. After several weekends caught in canning frenzy suddenly I was tomatoed out.

I had reached the ceiling, the upper limit of my known tomato territory. After the usual suspects sounded totally unappealing, the real creativity happened. This is when the experimental tomato stuffing started to happen, the round of ever-improving tomato breakfast cakes, my dabbling in panzanella, even that awful tomato smoothie I tried, until I was reacquainted with an old flame of mine: gazpacho.

Oh gazpacho, with your summertime swagger, your refreshing cool, your avoidance of the stove top, you are simply charming. You play well with the other garden buddies, the spring onions and the cucumbers especially, and while you are unsure of cilantro, you and Manchego cheese certainly hit it off at first sight. I am quite fond of you, gazpacho, and to be with you, on a breezy night with a slice of french bread, these are the moments I think cannot get any better. You look good all dressed up with white grapes or watermelon just as nice as you shine with avocado, and while sometimes your acid qualities burn my mouth, you always leave a pleasant taste behind, no matter how many times we fight.

Gazpacho in its many incarnations helped me keep the tomatoes under control. But whether or not you like raw vegetable soup as much as I do is unimportant. Point is, if I had never run out of tomato preparation methods, I never would have thought to make my own gazpacho. If I hadn’t ever hit the tomato wall, I would have a ton of rotting tomatoes in my pantry. In more general terms, limitations enable creativity, not prohibit it. The confined materials force you to find unconventional avenues and the limited working space allows you to focus on action rather than on vision.

Ever wonder why the final challenge of Top Chef produces the most boring dishes of all? Because they’re allowed to cook whatever they want. Turns out, when there are no limits, ultimate creativity is actually pretty difficult. That’s part of what makes the kitchen such an exciting place. It requires patience and passion in equal measure, but quite a bit of problem solving as well. Sometimes it’s the milk you don’t have or the cornmeal you need to get rid of that help you write your best recipes yet. So next time you run into a culinary tangle, remember that creativity might just be at the centre of it.

On my plate: assorted greens from my coworkers’ garden, herbed goats cheese from the Del Rey farmer’s market, vinaigrette using balsamic fig glaze from Borrough Market, and fresh cracked pepper. When it’s this good, you don’t need much else.

Note: I didn’t mean for this post to turn into a lecture on sustainability, but I’ve been looking at our food system differently since I began gardening. As I ate that delicious salad I thought about where it came from, how it got here, and how the true cost of food is a lot higher than the prices we pay at a supermarket. So here are my un-edited thoughts, for you to chew over yourself.

One of the most important culinary questions you can ask yourself is “does what I’m doing make a difference?” Fortunately I’ve the luxury of being picky about what sorts of food I put in my mouth and what sorts of goods go in my pantry. Recently I find myself caring more and more, and sometimes that puts me in a bit of a dilemma.

First it was the public transit, then it became the cycling everywhere, then I went a little nuts on our electricity consumption and subscribed to a CSA, all of which might have been a little eccentric, until I went totally crazy and changed all my toiletries and cleaning products, started gardening, composting, and now, canning.

It’s our world, and I want it to be a garden of eden. We foodies can no longer afford to ignore the problems with American agriculture, and neither can your tastebuds or your wallet. For a long time I felt like I couldn’t do anything about it, like every proactive step I could take was either a useless waste of energy or a tiny grain of sand on the endless coast of Australia.

It’s not just about people like me. It’s about your health, your taste, and your immediate future. Luckily, you don’t have to be vegan or vegetarian or raw foodist. You don’t have to only eat at home. You don’t have be an extreme green geek. The rules for making a difference are simple: do what you can when you can. The specifics of your actions will sort themselves out as long as you’re on the lookout to make a change. Some ideas…

Note: why is Whole Foods so expensive? Some of the food is more expensive because it’s not commonly found, or it required a lot of transport to get there. Whole Foods also offers a lot of products that aren’t ideal. Mostly Whole Foods is expensive because it’s fair trade, and it values certain kinds of relationships with distributors over others. Whole Foods simply makes it easier to make good choices. This is why I like Whole Foods, but the brand tends to elicit some incorrect assumptions. That’s the point of this whole post: your purchasing power is not to be taken lightly. What you do matters, and whether you’re aware of the choices you’re making or not, they’re definitely happening, so being an informed consumer really is the best way to make a difference. Otherwise you’re writing a check for thousands of dollars to companies you might not agree with.

A cursory glance at the menu will reveal one an only one option. Do not be distracted by the myriad toppings on the table in front of you, or the cheery staff trying to convince you cold noodles are the best choice. Do not get caught up in deciding how you’d like your noodles cooked, since Hakatatenjin will cook them to order. Do not spend forever debating whether you want the thin, somen-like noodles, or the slightly thicker spaghetti-esque noodles. Do not be afraid to pay the extra 50¥ it costs to dip that ladle into the vat of pickled eggs and call one your own.

Or rather, do. Do all of this. Do, because you are at Hakatatenjin Ramen in Shinjukugyoenmae and any carb coma you might induce can be averted by a long stroll in the massive park nearby. You are safe, so go ahead and put on those extra pickled ginger shreds, and go ahead and finish off those menma. You’re in good hands.

Hakatatenjin Ramen is serious black pork ramen for seriously hungry patrons. In a country where hundreds of noodle shops line nearly every street, it can be difficult to pick one out of the crowd. Hakatatenjin’s boisterous staff and dirty yellow awning are tell-tale signs that old-school quality is not far behind, something so often amiss when it comes to the more modern, vending machine ramen spots. Even harder to find is service like this, with a staff that will try to make you giggle no matter which language you speak, and a policy that will dish up more noodles when you’ve finished your first batch for the same price.

大きな地図で見る

Ah and the noodles are why you’re here, aren’t they? The thinner, chewier cousin of the dime a dozen ramen chains in Shinjuku come in a tangled mess, compacted into the bottom of a chipped, cereal bowl. But the soup packs a flavour stronger than any cocoa puff or lucky charm, and when all is said and done you may find yourself never wanting to leave. If only that thick soup with beads of fat swirling round the surface could stretch on forever you could call Hakatatenjin home, because for all intents and purposes, when you’re here, you are home.

Hakatatenjin Ramen（博多天神 ラーメン）
Nearest metro stop: Shinjukugyoenmae

I wrote last year about the wonders of my herb garden and the glory of Virginia’s summer produce. I find myself in the heat of another fertile summer where my farmers market is once again bursting at the seams and the lady that sells goats cheese knows me by name. What a glorious position I’ve come to be in.

Still, I wanted more. I’ve come to appreciate ingredients as much as I appreciate the dishes I make, and this year finds me considerably more informed on the subjects of agro-industry than the last. I’ve joined a small circle of gardeners, and on my last trip to London, I found my fellow tourist patrons were not summertime couples or vacationers from Europe, but elderly British garden ladies out to gaze at the lilac. To be honest, I liked it. But more on London later.

Back to Virginia, where the sunshine and rain a’plenty had me believing that this was the year I should try my hand at gardening. So I did. I started a vegetable garden in my mother’s back yard. I had help of course, but I cleared the beds and aerated the soil and pulled the weeds with my own two hands. I planted the seeds and watered the seedlings and soon I will be picking the fruit of my labours. It’s a downright magical experience to see something you planted as a tiny seed pop up and become as tall as you. My sense of wonder regarding the food we eat has been redoubled.

I fear I’ve become a hippie. Maybe it’s the pull of the sustainability-minded sensibility I’ve adopted, but the garden is just the start. I find myself reading labels more critically than ever before, switching to the fabled 18-in-1 castille soap, eschewing paper products and kitchen disposables, traveling by bicycle when it isn’t raining out, and frequenting farmers markets and organic grocer’s exclusively. I’ve learned a lot in this transition, where I’ve discovered that growing up my equally hippie mother had a few good points or two. I’ve realised that what I do really matters. I’ve completely changed how I live my day-to-day life. All because of a single little squarefoot garden.

I’ve got a few pepper plants, a bunch of tomatoe plants, and an assortment of other root vegetables here and there. What’s really come up into the sunlight for me though has not been my okra or my squash, but the deep network of fellow gardeners I had no idea ran so far underground. This garden won’t bear enough food to feed me for a week let alone a summer, but the passion I’ve picked up along the way will sustain me for years to come. Even the one dinner of beetroot I eat will be a reminder of how precious the food I eat really is. It started with a garden today, and maybe a compost heap tomorrow, and hopefully a better future in the days that follow.

Noodles undoubtedly make for the best late night food. Whether you had an amazing evening filled with romance and poetry or a night of drunken debauchery, the noodle joint is the place to round it all out. Never tried it? Well, when three meals aren’t enough to tide you over for the day’s activities, I find a bowl of some kind of hot noodles — pho in the spring, vermicelli in the summer, udon in the winter, and in this case, ramen all year round — will fill you up without leaving you heavy, satisfy your craving for salt, and comes in a formidably-sized bowl big enough to abate even the largest of grumblies. Simply put, noodles are the best late night snack around.

So when I was feeling peckish after seeing a live show and found myself in Bloosmbury, where did I decide to go but to the original Wagamama. Those familiar with both the UK and Boston will probably nod emphatically here, while the rest of you might be wondering what in the world Wagamama is, let alone how a chain of pan-asian-themed restaurants could win someone as die hard as I over. Surely Wagamama doesn’t live up to its expectations?

大きな地図で見る

Of course it does. Wagamama started in a basement, but the establishment could hardly be described in terms of peeling paint, yellowing light, or faux-anything usually associated with Asian look-alikes here in the states. Westernised Asian in England has a posh edge to it (a la Ping Pong, but more on that later), with minimal polished wood tables, recessed lighting, and exposed architectural elements. It manages to keep from smelling like a mix of floor cleaner and peanut oil as well, confirming my suspicions that Wagamama is using fresh vegetables and homemade stocks in their concoctions.

That’s what I’m really here to write about anyway, the concoctions, which are salty without burning your tongue and manage to offer the unusual on a menu packed with crowd favorites (i.e., I ordered pretty faithful tsukemono, Japanese pickles most patrons haven’t even heard of). In Boston I had the yasai yakisoba and gyoza, which were delectable, though didn’t exactly reek of the street cart variety I had in mind. In London though, the miso ramen met all of my expectations. It was briny like the real deal, chock full of vegetables that came piled on top, requiring a bit of stirring to get you going, and had a healthy portion of wakame, or green seaweed in the proportions most westerners are afraid to dole out to an amateur. In search of a late-night bite, it really was everything I had hoped. Next time I’m in London, I will definitely check out some of the more off-the-beaten-path ramen joints, but with a reputation as big as Wagamama’s, can you blame me for giving the big boys a well-deserved shot?

I’m radical in many ways (ever met a tech-savvy net-Gen-er that wants to start a commune? Now you have). From polyphasic sleeping to using hippy, aluminium-free deodorant, I routinely flout conventional wisdom, yet even I had trouble believing the plausibility of any diet that lets you eat as much bacon as you want. The paleo diet, the primal diet, the low carb diet, the Atkins diet, all seem to suggest just this. How is it that bacon can be better for you than Oreos? It seems ridiculous to me.

I’m not a dieter, and I enjoy a good laugh at the latest fad diet (”The Hollywood Cookie Diet” comes to mind), mostly because I’m reasonably well-informed when it comes to nutrition. It’s easy to laugh when you understand why weird diets appear to work — the 48hour juice cleanse just makes you poop out all the water in your body, the NutriSystem is plain ol’ portion control, and diet pills are just a boatload of energy supplements that make you too twitchy to eat — but I had a lot of trouble understanding why these meat-heavy diets could possibly work long term (aside from ketosis). It didn’t make logical sense, so I did what every curious millennial does: I went to the interwebs and looked it up.

As a comfortable vegetarian, I’ve now read as many success stories from the raw diet as I have from Mark’s Daily Apple. Mark Sisson is not the first person to suggest that you’re better off with bacon than brownies; I recall Michael Pollan saying something similar on his many diatribes, echoed by countless other bloggers out there into the movement. After weeks of reading, I figured out why it works, and, while I’m not about to start replacing all my canola oil with butter, as Mark suggests, I’ve come to terms with the kernel of the primal diet. It’s the basic idea I’ve always believed: eat real food.

A history lesson, before I get to the punch line. Processed foods are a recent phenomenon unique to America. As the inventors of marketing, it was only natural we’d start breaking down food into components we can use to leverage sales. We’re very good at it, that’s why we’re a rich country. This is great for industry, but terrible for the consumer. You can think they’re pure evil or think they’re probably harmless, but the fact remains that the repercussions of a diet high in processed foods are still being discovered. This is where the paleo/primal/low-carb/Atkins diets etc. all come into play. They say: eat like our ancestors did, before domestic farming and husbandry. They didn’t have supermarkets, or crops to tend to, so they ate what they could find. Fruit was rare, vegetables and nuts were abundant, and meat was gorged on whenever we could bother to kill something. So eat mostly vegetables, some meats, and a few fruits here and there. That’s the primal diet in a nutshell.

Here’s where I compare my food philosophy to Mark Sisson, Michael Pollan, Barbara Kingsolver, Ellie Krieiger, Jamie Oliver, Naomi Moriyama, and all the others that have shaped my idea of what food really is. I think the less steps there are to eating a food, the better off you are. Nutritionally, an apple is better for you than concentrated apple juice. Foods like wheat are actually toxic to humans in their raw form. In order to make wheat edible, you have to shuck it (twice, might I add), grind it, bleach it, mix it with other stuff, and roast the hell out of it to seem remotely palatable. Then there’s butter. It’s okay that it’s calorie-rich because it’s a lot of work to make. You have to churn it for ages, so you’re not about to dip into it every day. You savour it. Except nowadays we aren’t churning our own butter, and it’s easy to eat it by the stick. I’m not against apple juice, wheat four, or butter at all, but there’s something to be said for eating foods in proportion to how difficult they are to get into that form. Things you can eat any which way, like carrots, tomatoes, peaches, bananas, green beans, cashews, and so on, I eat a lot of. Stuff with extra steps involved, like beans, yoghurt, fish, pickles, eggs, wine, coffee/tea, corn, and so on I eat in smaller quantities. What I would never bother to make from plant to product myself, like cheese, butter, bread, pop, and so on, I only eat occasionally.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. I don’t count calories. I don’t keep a food diary. I don’t make all my meals at home. I don’t take supplements. I don’t add protein powder to my smoothies or flax seeds to my yoghurt, because I don’t know that you can break down your needs into components. If you need more of Omega-3s, eating fortified cereal ain’t gonna do it. Think about iron. Your body needs calcium and vitamin C to absorb iron properly. Taking an iron supplement is not enough. Instead I eat food with iron in it, such as spinach which, not surprisingly, has all those things in it already, plus some fiber and antioxidants to boot. This part of the primal diets I agree with. But I also think the human body is incredible versatile and adaptable. We can eat ridiculous quantities of processed food and survive because we’re adaptors. That’s what we do. Natural selection would theoretically kill off those of us that can’t handle the diet and leave those that can to procreate, but that’s a pretty unnecessary fate, if you ask me. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to eat a space-age, reconstituted meal in pill-form. I like food. Real, whole food.

This is where I agree with the crazies on another front (though, admittedly, not all accounts). We have a choice. We have more fruits and vegetables and dips and chips and cuts and pastes available to us than any ancestor before us. There are aboriginals in the Torres Straight islands that subsist off of nothing but wild goose eggs and yams grown in rocky soil. There are tribes in Africa that kill antelopes by outrunning them long-distance. There are societies that eat mostly bugs, people that would rather make soup from raw kale than eat a french fry, large populations of pacific islanders that no longer have the option to eat what their ancestors ate, and vast numbers of consumers that will never give up their Oreos. The point is that humans can survive eating whatever. You, though, you have a choice. Look at your own diet, your waistline, your own ancestors. Do your own research, make your own decisions, be well-informed so you can make a good decision when I ask, “What’ll it be? Bacon or brownies?”

I’ve been holding out on you. After living for almost a complete year in our nation’s capital, it’s fair to say I’ve picked my local haunts. I’ve found my favourites and denounced the competition, but while I’ve been frequenting the likes of my top sushi joint in Virginia for many moons now, I haven’t let you in on the secret. Don’t take it personally, I’m more than happy to share the wealth, and if I’ve been hesitant to say a peep, it’s because I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed because I always order the same thing.

Granted, Momo in Old Town Alexandria is a sushi stop, and any cuisine as specific as sushi probably warrants staying on well-travelled territory, but nearly every nigiri to touch my chopsticks has tasted well above my expectations so it was only a matter of time before I discovered the rest of the menu. It’s a risky move; I mean, how likely are the chefs to be good at sashimi AND teriyaki, really? But when I had an extreme hankering for some thick wheaty udon, I knew Momo was my place to go.

Upon first glance the shop seems small and modest, with a fairly run of the mill menu and friendly staff leading you to cramped tables. The noise level is nonexistent and the location is ideal, just a few blocks from King Street in the heart of the neighbourhood. You can find Japanese fare like this almost anywhere (though Momo’s rice is on the more excellent side of the spectrum), yet I’m almost always wary to say yes to the udon option linger alone on the back of the menu next to kuro-age and edamame. This was Momo we were talking about though, not the Frying Fish or Bonsai, so I gave it a go, and, well, you saw the video.

Perfect noodles. Udon done right: soft and chewy but not rubbery, clear salty broth that wasn’t too briny, lots of vegetables that still had a bite to them, that classic spiral-accented radish that makes me feel like someone knows how it should go back there, and a serving size that didn’t wither me at the onset. It didn’t break any records, but Momo’s udon was solid. It was a good, dependable, hearty dish that warmed my belly. How much more can you ask of a soup?

That’s kind of Momo’s niche anyway. Solid food. Really dependable, fresh sushi. In a region with as much great seafood as we’ve here in the DC area, I was astounded by the sushi selection and while I’ve had many a delightful crab cake, I’ve had very few worthwhile chirashi. Is Momo the best sushi I’ve ever had? Unsurprisingly no, having lived in both Japan and Los Angeles. But should you discount it? Absolutely not. Momo is a great place with stellar service and quality sushi and, as I discovered tonight, homey udon to boot.

I don’t hate salads, but I never seem to eat them. I rarely want to order them in a restaurant, and I not only dislike the kinds of home made salads always presented at potlucks, but I find my own salad materials rotting in the crisper every time I think I’ll get around to making one. I guess I’m just not a salad person, or so I thought.

I ate a scary large salad for lunch and enjoyed it, and a few days ago I ate another. I bought salad materials at the store today on purpose. Have I gone mad? No, I’ve simply found my salad stride. What changed? What led me from the dark side eschewing salad to feasting on the stuff? I realised a few things about my own tastes and began to experiment until I found out what exactly about salads I deplored and quickly excised them from my salad bowl.

First of all, I wasn’t doing math right in my head. As someone who doesn’t calorie count, like most people, I judge my food by quantity on my plate. This is all fine and dandy, but there’s a big difference between half a cup of rice or your sandwich bread and half a cup of spinach in terms of raw calories. If you’re going to eat a salad for a meal, you have to make it bigger than you expect. Double my salad quantity and I’m significantly more satisfied.

It seems logical then that a rib-sticking salad should include some form of protein to keep you from getting the grumblies a few hours later, but I realised that I do not enjoy protein in my salad. I don’t like beans, I don’t enjoy tofu, I hate fish, and I generally don’t even like cheese amid my leafy greens. Of course I like all of these things separately just fine, but put them in a salad and I start to turn up my nose. So guess what, I stopped trying to make sure I had protein in my salads and they started to look many times tastier. I’m happy to eat the protein, say a bit of peanut butter on an apple or a side of lentils or even leftover salmon but I immediately get disgusted if it’s put atop my salads.

Perhaps protein’s presence in my salad is overwhelming. On my path to salad bliss I’ve discovered that my least favourite salad of all time is the “hodgepodge” of anything and everything. I like vegetables. Not just most vegetables, I like all of them: the ugly green ones, the bitter ones that require extra cooking, the ones that stain your fingers and kitchen knives, the stringy ones, the ones masquerading as other foods, the ones toddlers are afraid of, all of them. Yes, even capsicum. I’ll eat the heart out of that, provided there’s nothing else in my icebox. However, I do not enjoy all of vegetables hanging out at town square together. I’ve never liked the cornucopia of roasted vegetables I grew up with. I never enjoyed the jubilee of veggies in a casserole. Only four ingredients allowed in my salad: one green, one onion-ish item, and only two others. Those other two can be whatever: pears and walnuts, grapefruit and avocado, mushrooms and hard boiled egg, so long as your ingredients don’t total over 4. Apparently I like thematic, segregated, minimal vegetables in my salad.

That was it. That’s all it took to get me to eat salads regularly. It wasn’t the ingredients I didn’t like, nor was it the concept of a salad, and I’ll eat just about any dressings around. It was my idea of what a salad was. Now though, I did eat a salad for lunch and let me tell you, it was delicious.