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“Is there nothing else to eat?” I asked opening the pot on the stove. “No” said mom, “sit down and I’ll fix you a plate.” “No,I don’t like it, I’ll make something.” “What will you make?” Mom insisted, “salad” I answered opening the refrigerator. “But salad is not a meal”. In my youth, I was a picky, and I mean really picky eater. When I didn’t like what my Mom cooked, which happened more than a few times, salad was my regular solution. My salad was a simple, tomato, cucumber, carrot and nothing more. I would finely chop them, add a little bit of salt, black pepper, olive oil and squeezed lemon juice, mix it all and eat. Every now and then for the variety I would add sour cream. Mom would walk around me, trying to tempt me to at least taste what she had prepared, but I, stubborn as any teenager, would not even try. When the salad was ready and I would sit down to eat, like a ritual, mom would sit next to me and say “your salad looks good.” “Want some?” I’d ask smiling knowing the answer, “just a taste” she would say. Since then, my salads have advanced and they contain ingredients that I was never prepared to taste at all, but salad as a meal remained a habit.