my garden
That’s my garden, and that’s my lettuce, ready to be dressed, and this year I’m not confused about that. This year I am like one of those French peasants who picks some rocket from their garden and, without stopping to think, throws together the perfect salad, the recipe for a dressing coded in their DNA.
Until now, my vinaigrette choices rivaled my breakfast cereal choices. Each time I approached a bag of greens, I needed to sort through my cluttered mental pantry for a method. Gordon Hammersly’s with shallots and mustard? Barbara Lynch’s with maple syrup? That other one with Agave syrup? Or my mother’s recipe which requires piles of finely chopped garlic, anchovies, and at least three lemons? And what about the ratio of oil to acid? 1:3 or 1:4?
A lot of these efforts resulted in soggy greens that still need salt.
