Wednesday, December 14, 2011


I grew up with a salad at every meal. And I hated it. Probably this was due in part to the fact that I was the designated salad-maker. Chop the carrots, shred the cheese, find the sliced almonds. Like the ever-constant glass of milk, salad was enough to make me gag. That feeling still lingers, and it is the rare meal at our house that includes a salad. Baked broccoli, yes. Sauteed carrots, sure. But very few salads.

So today, after feeling sluggish/guilty/fat/squooshy/generally-irritated-by-the-fact-that-it-was-*already*-lunchtime, I got Lily's help and we made a huge salad. So easy: Romaine, chopped carrots, chopped celery, chopped apple, chopped cheddar, and all the leftover pork. Two choices of dressings: Ranch and Roasted Red Pepper Italian with Parmesan (which means, of course, there is hardly any Ranch left and plenty of the other. But that's fine with me!).

The kids licked their bowls clean, several asking for seconds. Jonathan (3), our resident gagger, declared, "Mama, you make bee-licious food. I love this."

Not salad.

Thereby re-confirming the fact that what you withhold from children will become precious to them.

And perhaps they will still have room for this afternoon's chocolate peppermint sandwich cookies.

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