n the spring of 2004, I planted myself a mean garden. And boy howdy was I ever ambitious. Aside from over thirty tomato plants, I also planted red and green bell peppers, lettuces, cabbages, spinach, cucumbers, squash, and just about every herb under the sun: basil, cilantro, dill, fresh parsley…and a few things I couldn’t even pronounce. And sure, I was pregnant with my fourth baby at the time. And I was big. Reeeeal big. But my due date wasn’t ’til the middle of July and by then, I reckoned, I’d have gotten things in the garden well underway. I’d take oh, three to four days off to pop on over to the hospital and do my thing, then I’d be back squattin’ in my rows of vegetables in no time.
Then, on June 4, I went into pre-term labor, had an emergency cesarean, and spent the next two-plus weeks holed up in an NICU with my struggling little baby boy. And I had a wicked scar across my abdominal region, not to mention three other kids and a huge, ill-conceived garden at home. I couldn’t figure out what I was more worried about.
Marlboro Man rose to the occasion, at least where our other three children were concerned. He fed and bathed them, told them bedtime stories, and wiped their body parts for two straight weeks, God love him. And his mother, my beloved mother-in-law, stepped up to the plate and totally took care of my burgeoning garden, driving out to our place daily to water, weed, and harvest my vegetables as the need arose. I’ll never forget that as long as I live. Because the time I’d spent planning, cultivating, and planting that sucker? I would’ve packed it in and hung it up forever if it had all been for naught.
Weeks later, I was back at home and feeling sorry for myself, what with the massive scar that marred my gut and the now-thriving infant who was glued to my bosom 24/7, oh, and the other three sucklings who bit at my ankles on an hourly basis. I was deflated, defeated, and fat, and I opened up my bulging recipe binder, which has always been a source of escape for me, and found a recipe I’d printed out a few years before. I’d seen the dish on a BBC episode of The Naked Chef, and I’d always had it in my mind as something that might bring me happiness. And as I perused the recipe, I noticed that just about everything I needed for the salad was growing outside in my garden—the garden that was still thriving, no thanks to me. So I stood up, dislodged the suckling from my left teat, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and set out to make the salad. Something in my life had to give.
The result? It was a triumph. A total winner. An explosion of color, flavor, and texture, and guess what? It instantly lifted me out of the funk I was in. The next day, I started doing Pilates, dropped 25 pounds, and became a much more well-rounded, intelligent, successful and popular person. Well, not really on most of that stuff, but the salad, folks, is really that good.
I’ve adapted the original to meet my needs, and the beauty of this salad is, you can just wing it, adjusting the ingredients of the salad or the dressing as you like. And if I had any friends, I always thought a great idea for a luncheon would be to make the dressing, then assign all your buddies one item from the list of ingredients. Then when everyone shows, you just dump it all into a big bowl and go for it!
Someday, if I get some friends, I’m going to try that.
For now, though, I’m tickled to share it with you!