Spinach Is the New Meat

I thought I was going to keep it simple tonight. I was going to make a spinach salad with apples, Parmesan, and the remaining Marcona almonds from the Ghetto Gourmet. Fast, fresh, and raw.

But do you know what happens once the fridge door opens? All of the food starts to dance around for your attention because it wants out of there. It’s as bad as seeing the cute kittens trapped at the shelter, and before I know it, everything in my refrigerator has been freed, and now I’m toasting bread, grating Gouda and Parmesan cheese, chopping garlic, poaching eggs, and searing salmon on high heat. On top of that, Orangette’s Pleasantly Sogged post is whispering in my ear, and now my spinach, the curliest, thickest I’ve ever seen that I was looking forward to eating raw (I know it’s not kale, but is there a such thing as dinosaur spinach?), has been boiled until soft and kissed by garlic and olive oil.

All this talk about what I did leads me to something else I wasn’t going to do. Share pictures of the food I cook. It feels too precious and self-important. Food is meant to be cooked, so why are we so impressed when we <gasp> cook it?

Can someone answer a question for me? Do the French take delightfully staged pictures of their dinner to share with their food-loving French friends? See, I’ve heard that cooking comes naturally to them, and that eating well is a way of life. I wonder if they just cook it, eat it, and call it a day. Thanks. I’ve been wanting to know.

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