In Praise of Greek Salad

I remember seeing the sign, just minutes after disembarking off the ferry that sailed from southern Italy to the Greek port town of Piraeus . We were bleary-eyed from a restless night spent in the hold of a ship, sleeping on rows of dirty reclaimed airplane seats that made up the low-priced passenger seating on this particular boat. My friend and I were young, twenty or so, and on a budget. But my head was filled with the images of the Greek myths I had loved as I child and I wanted to go to Greece. Neither of us had anticipated how uncomfortable the passage would be. When we stumbled off the boat, blinking in the suddenly bright sun, we were cranky and tired, hungry too.

That’s when we saw the sign in the window: Greek Salad.

I knew what a Greek Salad was already, at least what we Americans call a Greek Salad—a simple mixture composed of tomatoes, cucumber, feta cheese, and olives. I had eaten them before, but no Greek Salad ever got me as excited as that sign in the window.

The problem, you see, had been Italy. We had been traveling for awhile: Florence, Rome, Naples. We’d seen grand art, we’d been flirted with (and even accosted by) Italian men, we’d eaten near to our weight in gelato, but there had been a great lack in our lives of the past few weeks. No matter what we did, we couldn’t find any vegetables to eat. For two girls from California who had come of age in the low-fat eighties, this was near tragic. One day in Rome we made a pact that we would somehow manage to eat a vegetable by the end of the day and—for about the eighth day in a row—we failed. At the end of the day we decided that the tomato sauce on the pizza we consumed would qualify as our vegetable, it was the closest we got.

If Regan could qualify catsup as a veggie, we figured we had precedent.

What do you mean? I can hear you say, Italian food is filled with great vegetables.

I won’t argue that for a moment. The problem was that all those vegetables were in restaurants, and this was the one place we did not venture. We had read somewhere that if you go into a restaurant in Italy they will expect you to order a full meal, multiple courses. This scared us because we were on a budget as we traveled, rather a tight one, and we feared walking into a dining situation we could not afford. We longed for restaurants that posted their menu and prices outside the door, but this didn’t seem to be the done thing; we longed for restaurants that seemed casual and affordable, but never did seem to find one. Instead we ate pizza and gelato and things we bought in delis.

You shouldn’t for an instant feel sorry for us, that we never had a full Italian meal. We’d been staying with friends of my family in the Chianti before we went traveling and had been very well fed there. Once we hit the road things weren’t too bad either. One day in Rome we had a picnic on the grass at the Piazzale Garibaldi, with all the glory that is that city spread below us, and ate the most amazing pesto on bread with cheese and felt like our lives were indeed charmed. We didn’t feel deprived for an instant; it turns out that you can eat very well in Italy without ever stepping foot in a restaurant. At least you can when you're twenty and you have stars in your eyes.

But we did miss our vegetables, craved them even. When at last we stumbled onto an open-air produce market in Naples, we fell upon the crates of tomatoes and peppers with glee. We bought them and rushed back to the small room in the somewhat gritty cheap hotel where we were staying. We washed them in the bathroom sink and ate them whole, happy simply to taste fresh produce again.

It was this point where the manager of the hotel—an old man who kept finding a reason to come up to our room—knocked on the door. My friend answered, a large red pepper half eaten in her hand. I’ll never forget the look on the old man’s face—surprise, mild disgust, and incredulousness—as he asked, “Crudo?” You eat it raw?

But Greece was an end to all that. In Greece things were cheaper and it was possible to order lightly—and in almost all the restaurants that catered to tourists there were signs that read simply: Greek Salad.



In all honesty, “Greek Salad” is a misnomer. Salads of tomatoes and cucumber are common not only in Greece, but in Cyprus and throughout the Middle East as well. In the German language it is simply called a “farmer’s salad,” but somehow in English the dish got credited to the Greeks and the Greeks alone.

It is a simple thing, this salad. Four ingredients—tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, olives. I sometimes add capers, sometimes slivers of red onion, but that’s as far as I go. I think a Greek Salad that has lettuce in it is not a Greek Salad, and I don’t like green peppers either. The one deviation I have adopted over the years is to dress it with a vinaigrette dressing, rather than the traditional plain olive oil, or oil and vinegar. I find it gives a bit more body to the dish and I like that.



When I think of Greek Salads at this time of year I think of Adam, the farmer at Linnaea Farms that I interviewed two summers ago. When we spoke he called himself a “bitter lettuce farmer.”

Adam was angry—bitter, he says—that everyone has fallen for mixed salad greens and baby lettuce. He blamed it on Alice Waters and California Cuisine. Not everyone should be eating as if they lived in California in the early summer, he said, and told me that lettuce isn’t even good throughout the full summer. By late summer the lettuce has turned bitter and we should be making other sorts of salads, like tomato and cucumber.

In other words, by the time August rolls around, we should be eating Greek Salads.



I made this salad for a party earlier this summer. I had planned on making the red quinoa salad I love so much, but that weekend was hot, blazingly so, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn on the stove. Instead I just cut up tomatoes and cucumbers, pitted olives, mixed a vinaigrette. It is a simple thing, this salad; at the same time, it’s simply wonderful.

And if you bring it to a party, on a hot, late summer day, it’s likely that you’ll be going home with a bowl that looks like this.



GREEK SALAD

2 cups tomatoes (about 12 oz)
I prefer cherry or globe, cut in half so nobody does that funny tomato seed squirt; also, they tend to hold their shape and not get too sad and soggy if left on a picnic table for a little while
2 cups cucumber, peeled if skin is tough, and chopped into cubes (about 1 lb)
9.5 oz jar of pitted kalmata olives
8 oz Feta cheese
1 tbs capers

Dressing
My favorite vinaigrette is mostly a matter of math.
One part Dijon mustard (one teaspoon, one tablespoon—how much do you want to make? Here I did one tablespoon)
Three parts red wine vinegar (that would be three tablespoons, if that's the measure you picked)
Recipes will tell you then to do five parts olive oil (five tablespoons). I just pour in enough, while whisking, to get to the point when it all holds together. But then again, I love vinegar. Find your sweet spot.
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Chopped fresh oregano is a nice touch here, about 1/4 tsp. Don't bother with the dried stuff.

Put salad ingredients in a large bowl. Wait to dress and toss salad until just before you are ready to eat. Makes a good picnic serving.

On a Summer's Day

All summer long—all spring, even—I’ve been harboring a little dream. My dream included a few simple things: a friend, a blanket on the grass under a tree, and a warm summer’s day. It’s a simple recipe, but harder to concoct than you might think. If you can get it right, it’s a little bit of alchemy.

First you need to find time—this is often easier than it sounds. As much as my life in Seattle is calmer and slower than my life in San Francisco (something I am profoundly grateful for), it can still be hard to find a free afternoon. Add in a friend’s busy schedule and things get even more complicated. The afternoon in question I had a number of things I should have been doing, but the day was sunny, the sky was blue, and what was I going to remember more—an afternoon spent at the computer or an afternoon spent on the grass with a friend? I chose the later.

The grass in question is my friend’s backyard, and such a backyard one does not often see. It's large, with leafy green trees—a treehouse, even. There are flowers and vegetables too. There are birdhouses, even a clothes line. It’s the sort of backyards that people used to have, when houses were smaller and gardens were larger and you planted trees to provide both fruit and shade. In the autumn her lawn is studded with apples, but not yet. Now it is just grass, lovely, inviting grass.



It’s the sort of grass that makes you want to kick your shoes off.



And so you spread out your blanket, and maybe you bring some food (Ethiopian takeout, from our favorite place in town). And if you are me, you lie on the blanket and stick your feet off the end so that you can wiggle your toes in the grass.

(Alternate versions of this manuever include the sand wiggle, done at the beach, and the more challenging to pull off but ever so delightful water wiggle, which can only be accomplished alongside a lake or slow-moving river.)

And you lie there and talk and laugh with your friend, and you watch the clouds slowly blow by and you listen to the birds and feel the slanting late afternoon sun as it moves across the grass, and it doesn’t matter about the work and the worries that may sit at home on your desk. These are the moments you cherish, the ones that will linger. This is what you have been waiting for.

And your friend—who is quite a genius—surprises you with root beer floats. Root beer floats! Creamy vanilla ice cream in a cup, with cold root beer poured over it. You feel like a kid again, let out for summer vacation.

And you’re happy.



This is what I wish for you this summer. That you might find a free afternoon in the midst of your busy life and a small patch of grass—be it a backyard, a park, or a friend’s garden. I hope that you can lay out your blanket, listen to the sound the wind makes as it ruffles the leaves of the trees, and watch a few lacy clouds slowly float across a blue sky. And I wish that you might be happy.

Root beer floats entirely optional but heartily recommended.

"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." —J. Lubbock



And if an afternoon on the grass doesn’t make you happy, just look at this sweet house. I mean really, have you ever seen something so cheerful?

Happy summer, friends. I hope it is a good one for you.

Of Brothers and Beers and Immortality

If I might be the tiniest bit bossy—like an older sister—I would tell you to go out and get yourself a surrogate brother, especially one of the gregarious Irish-American persuasion, I think everyone should have one. They make life so much better.

My surrogate brother is named Paul. We grew up in neighboring towns but didn’t meet until after college, when he befriended my best friend while traveling in Guatemala. She introduced us and the rest is history. He quickly became my surrogate brother and has been ever since.

Paul and I were in Japan at the same time and he became my touchstone there, a connection to home and all that it represented. He knew the joy of a hike on Mt. Tam; how the sound of the foghorns under the Golden Gate can be both mournful and beautiful; and the pleasure of watching the sun sink into the Pacific from Bolinas Ridge (and how important a cold beer at the brewery is afterwards). Whenever I grew homesick I knew I could call Paul in Tokyo (much cheaper than actually calling home). He always understood without me having to explain. And when my tender heart was crunched by a man who both said he loved me and was unfaithful, he understood that too. Paul came to visit for a week and got the two of us into so much mischief that I didn’t have time to think about my loss. That's the sort of guy he is.

Paul is directly responsible for many memorable moments in my life—and all of my worst hangovers. Our adventures always felt epic. In Tokyo we stayed out all night going to dance clubs, taking photo booth pictures at 5 AM as we waited for the trains to resume. Up in the mountains we went snowboarding, soaked in hot springs, and played basketball with the children in my village (when Paul realized the hoops were lower than he was used to, he achieved a life dream of dunking like an NBA star and the kids went wild). Once we went on a road trip with friends and had so much fun we decided to take an extra lap around the region, just because we didn't want the experience to end.

There was that magical night when it actually snowed in Tokyo—something that never happens. We walked back from dinner through a city whose constant sound was suddenly muffled and heard the clink of pool balls echoing out of an upstairs window. It was a hidden pool hall. Paul promised to teach me how to play and I proceeded to beat him two games, a fact he now refuses to admit ever happened. “It never snows in Tokyo,” he says with a grin whenever the topic comes up.

One day, earlier this spring, my phone rang and I saw that it was Paul. I was on a call for work so I ignored it and called back when I was done.

“You missed out,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood.” Paul used to live on the same street as me in San Francisco, but moved north to Marin County when he got married. “I just got home.”

“That’s too bad, I have something to celebrate.” And I told him how I had received the signed and sealed contracts for my book that very day, it was finally official.

“I’ll come back,” he said immediately.

“Nah, don’t do that. “ I couldn’t bear the idea of him driving all the way back to the city, across the Golden Gate Bridge with its five dollar toll. “We can celebrate some other time.” I was already thinking of all the work I had to do.

“How many times are you going to get the contact for your very first book—we have to celebrate!”

And thus was hatched the plan of the Carbon Neutral Beer. I would walk from my neighborhood across Golden Gate Park to the Richmond District. Paul would ride his bike across the Golden Gate Bridge. We would meet at an Irish pub on Clement Street, for a cold drink on an afternoon that saw higher temperatures than San Francisco usually sees. I had been hiding all day in my cool house to escape the raging heat.

So I walked across the park, past the soccer games and through the leafy green.



And down streets lined with the cutest of houses. Now that I don’t spend much time in San Francisco the city seems to me like a dream, so charming, so quaint.



And over to a dark cool bar, where my faux-brother was waiting, already drinking a beer after his ride.

And because Paul is insufferably gregarious, by the time I reached the bar he had already befriended everyone there and told them about my news. When Paul caught sight of me he started clapping and they all joined in. I got an ovation from total strangers, all congratulating me on my book contract.



Then we sat and drank beers and talked, and I watched Paul talk with his hands as he always does. We talked about our friends from Japan, we planned reunions that most likely will never happen. Paul told me how, now that his generation is having kids, this is the bar they come to after each new baby is born at the nearby hospital. “First you bring a bottle of Patrón with you to see them in the hospital and have a few drinks there, then we come here afterwards.”

“The father doesn’t come with you, does he?”

“Nah, the dad stays at the hospital with the mom and the baby,” he assured me. “Well, except for my brother—he came down here with us.”

“He left his wife and new baby to come drink with you? That’s awful,” I tell him, but Paul just grins. If you marry into a clan such as his, you'd best know what you’re signing up for.

And then he tells me a story that made complete sense in the moment, though it might have been the beer going to my head. He told me that life is sometimes hard, but when we can sit with our friends and have a drink together, it is like we are immortal.”

Or something like that. It doesn’t make any sense to me now but in the moment it felt deep, profound. Though that might have just been Paul’s amazing ability to talk anyone around to anything.

But when I think about it now, months later, it does feel profound that someone dear to me would drop whatever he was doing and bike across a big bridge to sit with me in a dark bar and raise a glass to mark something special in my life—and though Paul might disagree, it has nothing to do with the beer.



This is who we are in our best moments—there for our friends, our family, those we care about. Paul has helped me move furniture (but swears he will never do it again—apparently I own the heaviest desk known to mankind). We've shared many a meal—he even bravely ate the first steak I ever cooked (an event you can read about when the book comes out). We've both cheered the other on in the trials and triumphs that make up a lifetime. Call it friends, call it family—I know he will always be there for me, and I for him.

The moments I treasure may not end up being the days that soar to great heights. Sometimes the best memories are days like this: when a friend takes the time to quietly witness—insists that you take the time to witness, even—a moment in your life. And in that process, you both write a new chapter in the part of your life that you share together.

Then my surrogate brother got back on his bike and rode north, home to his family. I went south, to evening dinner plans with friends—though not before I gave him grief for not wearing a bike helmet (the dumkopft). I am his surrogate sister, after all.

But for a moment there, laughing at our shared stories in the dark of a bar, we felt immortal.