Salads

When I was growing up, a salad meant raw seasonal greens that were tossed with salt, olive oil, and vinegar. Most frequently it was a single green, the freshest lettuce that was available that morning. In a more festive mood, to mark a holiday or simply to celebrate the good taste of life, my mother would fill the bowl with raw young artichokes sliced very thin, with red-rimmed disks of radishes, spindly carrot sticks, diced celery, finocchio slices, sliced onion that had been sweetened by soaking in many changes of cold water, the wild pungent rucola—arugula—and an assortment of wild chicory—misticanza. For such a salad, I could hardly wait to get past the meal that was served before it.