We make a big salad mix a couple of times a week. I was putting it together on Sunday while Lianne sat across the bar from me reading. I could sense her eyes on me as I worked, and I knew she was thinking something. “What am I doing wrong?”
She pretended like she wasn’t watching, “Nothing. It looks good.”
“I feel like you’re judging me.”
“Well, I was thinking that you’re not cutting the right way.” She acted reluctant, almost apologetic, but I know she was just bursting at the seems to share her thoughts.
“I’m cutting romaine lettuce into narrow slices with a large knife. I’m not sure how to do it any differently.”
She says, “You’re holding your wrist wrong or something.” I tried a different angle with no success. I finally resort to full-on Swedish chef mode, slicing with reckless abandon as lettuce chips fly around the kitchen.
I added some cabbage and lettuce and spinach without too much comment from the self-appointed salad making expert. I was starting feel pretty good about myself until I got to the kale.
“You should massage that.”
I looked up, not sure that I had heard correctly. Lianne wasn’t even looking at me, and I wondered if I was imagining things. “Did you say something?”
“Yeah, you should massage the kale.” Then, with a tone that implied I was an ignorant buffoon, “You haven’t heard of that?”
Shrugging, I cracked my knuckles, flexed my shoulders, and leaned in to do some vigorous, deep tissue, leaf massaging. Meanwhile, Lianne was searching the internet, “Yep, it says here you should hold the kale in your hands and gently agitate it so that the cell structure breaks down.”
Feeling like a fool, I dutifully did as she instructed. I’m a great husband in that way. “It’s making the kale wilt,” I complained.
“It’s not wilting, it’s relaxing.”
This better be the most incredible salad I’ve ever had.