Here we go: It’s 11:08 p.m., and with salad in mind for lunch tomorrow, I have, in the past 12 minutes, whirred up a batch of my favourite Cobb vinaigrette – enough to last Wayne and I for days – washed a head of iceberg (the Kraft dinner of lettuces, but after three weeks of All Sorts and mashed potatoes, we need a gateway drug), put a pot of eggs on to boil, macerated a few thinly sliced purple onions, dug the black olives out of the fridge, and tossed into my Tupperware the ingredient that always makes a salad more seductive when I’m not in the mood for it, the one thing that can stop me from spurning my greens for the glycemic thrill of a great big sexy sangwich, and that is cheese (little cubes of organic white cheddar this time around).

Once Wayne peels the eggs, our lunch salads for tomorrow will be ready to go. If I wasn’t in such a rush to get to bed, I’d take and post pictures of our giant, icebergy Tupperwares and I’d also find a funnier way to set up the story about how Wayne derailed my plans for a supper salad tonight by wooing me with sushi.

We were driving home from my sister’s gig in the freezing early evening, discussing our cold, salady supper plans, when Wayne pitched sushi with surprising resoluteness. The idea of all that salty, chewy rice weakened me in an instant. I resisted with a whine in my voice:  “But they’re counting on me,” I whinged, and, “I promised them,” and, “Who’s  going to bother coming back to read about the challenge if I can’t deliver on Day 1?”

But he was already pulling into a slushy parking spot on Bloor Street, muttering about how sushi is really actually a “salad” made of fish and rice with soy-sauce dressing. While I do plan to stretch the definition of Salad this month, I promise I will never go that far.

So, let tomorrow be Day 1. Stock your fridge with romaine and leaf and arugula and anything else vegetal that appeals to you, raw or cooked. There will be quinoa. There will be beans involved, and goat cheese, and roast chicken, and ravigote dressing, and something kooky called Insalata Mexicana. There will be many exciting new recipes to try, though some days we’ll have to repeat old favourites (let’s be reasonable here), and some days it’ll be whatever’s in the fridge.

After all, we aren’t perfect salad people. How could we be? All the world’s molasses bread is stacked against us. But there’s always the fear of scurvy to keep us on track – and, at least this month, we’ll have each other. So please post your own favourite salad instructions here; we will need them. I hereby promise a really delicious prize for the best one.

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