My Salad Days

My salad days

(Published in Us, The News International, Aug 21, 2009)

"Cheese has no place in a garden salad!" My two-thousand-rupees-an-hour nutritionist told me for the umpteenth time as I pleaded with her to bend some rules.

"But it's dairy! And very nutritious! For my bones…"

"But it does not grow in a garden…"

"Well, cows eat grass!"

"That does not make them vegetables."

My heart bled as she printed out my diet plan. Thirty days on a complete detox salad diet: to get my stagnant bowels going and to slash down the lipids that had happily colonised the fertile lands of my belly. And all this to a person who used to think eating raw food was the next best thing to suicide!

"And don't forget to wash your vegetables thoroughly…"

"Don't worry, even the maggots can't live long on that stuff," I grimaced and banged the door behind me.

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No, I am not spoilt. And no, I don't belong to a dysfunctional family of binge eaters. It's in our genes. Mine. Yours too. Our culprit: Evolution! Salad prejudice dates back to just a few million years ago when our untamed ancestors would kill beasts and relish the flesh. Only a bad day at hunting meant the family had to eat something that grew out of earth. And well, the bad hunters were no longer 'alpha' males. They wouldn't get any hot chics. And would die without kids. BAM! Nature's way to kick out bad genes!

But then, whatever brought the greens back 'in'? I failed to understand. And to find an answer, I braced myself for a particularly unpleasant and disagreeable culinary journey: "How to make a salad edible?"

My biggest concern, the cause of my insomnia, was of course the bitter truth that I had to be my own guinea pig. To like or to loathe, to adore or to abhor, to eat or to puke -- I had to first munch on the veggies. I felt like that man captured by savage cannibals, who had him tied up as their leader announced, "Council will offer you two choices: death, or salad."

The man said with surprise, "Salad? Really? Does that in your language mean some barbaric assaults using rocks and spears?"

"No, dumbo! Salad means lettuce, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers and carrots…"

"Carrots?" Screamed the man. "Give me death!"

"You got it," said the leader. "Bring the salad, guys!"

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Needless to say, the products of mother earth let me down. The tomatoes squirted blood; the onions reeked of ammonia; the carrots looked weirdly hairy; lettuce and cabbage, ordinary and bland; radishes gave me so much gas, I was airborne for the rest of the day. Downcast and disillusioned, I tried, in vain, to forget my failed foray into the world of cellulose. Strangely, the malfunction had added in my mind, a bizarre element of mystery and respect and reverence for the veggies. Salads must have suffered a long, hard time reaching the recognition as a full participant in our meal-time activities. Once demoted to just as a side dish for people who were either watching their figure or recovering from a medical problem, it must have taken quite a cooking revolution to pronounce salads as 'appetizers'. That, and a lot of persistence from salad makers and lovers that has really made the salad what it is today. Suddenly, I so wanted to enjoy my salads. I desperately wanted myself to feel good about not only eating healthy, but also about participating in one of the great culinary success stories.

With a new zeal, I decided to start with the basics. With loving hands, I selected a stunning, emerald-hued cucumber. With gentle moves, I peeled it off. With affectionate strokes, I sliced it into little discs of subtle freshness. A squeeze of lemon juice for the tang of mischief; a sprinkle of salt for the hint of politeness; a pinch of black peppers for the trace of warmth. With the fondness of a prince, I brought my tranquil princess to my lips. Keen to fall in love with it, I chewed it with concern; soaking up, taking in, every flavor, every taste.

And I spat out.

The cucumber was bitter!

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