My father, who lived only 70 years, and has been dead for 34, always made our family salad. It was called tossed salad back in the day and he learned to make it from an Italian gentleman who owned a restaurant my parents liked. Dad’s special salad was always garnished with a clove of garlic on toothpick—no one ate it, save one looney uncle— but it was there. The knife and the classic wooden bowl were also rubbed with garlic. 
My dad, whose name was Lyman, also made his own dressing, which began with salt and pepper, applied directly to the lettuce, which was then tossed. Next came two tablespoons of oil and a tablespoon of cider vinegar and further tossing. Dad was famous for his salad and at potlucks it was always requested. I’m quite sure not everyone believed he made it. Lots of dads cook now, but in the Sixties most dads didn’t.
Looking back, I’d say my parents shared household chores more than most families did. My younger sister was disabled and required a lot of care, and my mom and dad both worked at the business they owned. They often got home late and we ate late.
Salad was the first thing I ever made all by myself. I could put potatoes in the oven and perform other simple tasks, but one night ( I was around 8) I took on a salad. It was a work of art. I garnished the iceberg (we always used iceberg lettuce) with carrots, celery, onion, tomato and 
the piece de resistance maraschino cherries and Velveta cheese cubes. A work of art, I thought.
My parents and I ate it. But they mentioned that the cherries were for Manhattans, and probably didn’t go in salad. Truthfully, I thought the whole thing tasted rotten.
But to this day I eat a salad nearly every lunchtime. Minus cherries. And there’s no Velveta.
Much later I became a salad girl, but I’ve already blogged about that. (See my blog “My Salad Days.” https://wp.me/p3cJ8X-xz
What I’ve been revisiting in my mind lately is my dad’s legacy. Because of him I expected that the man I married would share the housekeeping chores, not leave them all to me. Consequently, I wed a man who does his own laundry. We taught the kids to do their own too as soon as they could reach the machine. John, my husband of 50 years, specializes in Dad’s Wacky Cake and he can make a mean ice cream or banana cream with his Yonanas machine. (Cake recipe found easily online as is the Yonanas machine.)
John can also cook for himself if I’m away. Truthfully, as we have gotten older we both eschew cooking.
Our son, who lived in California for some time, taught me to bake sourdough bread in the Tartine manner. I love it. Miraculously, our son and his wife are a much better cooks than I ever even imagined I could be. And, their child rearing and chores are split as much as possible.
We have two grandchildren — boys– and they were introduced to the kitchen early, handling knives and mixing and stirring like pros. The six year old creates edible recipes—minus maraschinos—and cooks his own hot breakfasts.
Our daughter, who became a serious vegetarian in her teens, also creates delicious meals and has taught kids in her California school the beauty of growing kale and eating it as chips.
Ironically, I’m now violently allergic to garlic, so I don’t keep any in the house.
But I’ve always liked Elaine on Seinfeld ( https://youtu.be/fomWuV-BtbI?si=ZQjSQTGk7dwsxBt- ) because of the Big Salad.
I know my dad would be proud.
50 years ago, on the first Earth Day, I wrote a piece for the newspaper I worked for encouraging people to pick up trash. Thinking back, and looking at the photos I took, I remember the trash strewn along the roads, and in the fields—rusty old equipment, tires, junk, and cans, bottles and paper chucked out car windows.
I read. The book I just finished, In Pursuit of Disobedient Women by Dionne Searcey made me realize how lucky we are. She reports from West Africa where she was bureau chief for the New York Times from 2015-2019. Her beat: Boko Haram and other terrorists, women kidnapped and trained as suicide bombers, and women who, before being brutalized by their captors, watch as their families are slaughtered. Searcey reports and reports and makes their stories matter. And tells her own as well. Mom, wife, and believer in survival. And truth. I really admired her book, but it gave me some sleepless nights. Perhaps it’s time for Jane. Jane Austen.
Floridawoman 