I see you there, looking all equinox-ready in your springy greens and purples.
No doubt a comely sight for hibernating eyes, but this salad needs not rest on looks alone.
I'd even go so far as to call it my house salad. And that's a mighty lofty--not to mention misleading--claim for someone who owns no house to make.
Why is it so darn special, you wonder?
I can't really say. It just is.
One day, in my pursuit of securing an obituary descriptor akin to "salad maker extraordinaire who never made the same one twice," I topped some tender, frilly lettuces with half moons of sweet red onion, knobbly nuggets of toasty walnuts, and large chunks of buttery avocado until it looked so gorgeous that I wanted to wear it instead of eat it.
It needed a frock of its own though, so staying in the pastel palette, I added a long squeeze of honey to some more-pink-than-red wine vinegar and then rounded it out with olive oil the color of liquid sunshine.
A few delicate tosses later, the heavens opened, angels sang, and I knew I had fulfilled my higher purpose in life.
You know I'm being hyperbolic (kind of), yet something transformative does happen between the sum of these parts that renders its whole so ineffably delicious that I'm willing to forfeit my title of salad virtuoso in order to put my whole (first) name on this one instead.
I sure hope it does me proud.
Megan's (proverbial) house salad
- 3-4 cups of leafy greens (like baby romaine, butter lettuce, gem lettuce, or spring greens)
- 1/2 cup of walnut halves
- 1/2 a small red onion, thinly sliced into half moons
- 1 avocado, diced
- salt and freshly-ground pepper
- 2 tsp. of honey
- 3 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
3 Tbsp. olive oil, or walnut oil (especially if you own a house)
Wash and spin dry your greens until fluffy and spry. Toast the walnuts in a dry sauté pan until they look and smell like better versions of themselves. When cool enough to handle, break the halves into quarters.
Unite the greens, walnuts, red onion, and avocado in a bowl and season them fairly with salt and pepper.
In a small bowl or jar, combine the honey, the vinegar, the oil, plus another dose of salt and pepper, and give it a whisk or a shake.
Dribble the dressing over the salad in two installments to avoid that fate worse than death: slimy, drenched greens.
Gingerly toss the salad with lightly-sprung tongs (or, even better, your fingertips) so as not to bruise your greens or to turn your diced avocado into guacamole.
Now, try to put your finger on exactly where the magic happens and then clue me in.
Of course, if no such magic happens, then kindly remove my name from the salad's title and accept my apologies for getting over-excited.