And now we have this missive from an obscure village in Oklahoma where (and I am not making this up to be mean, I have a verified report before me) there have been a number of cows making a break for freedom:
Why does salad taste better when someone else makes it for you?
And Dr. Brian responds:
I must confess, dear quaint but emotionally complex correspondent, that I have truly taken a fancy to your submission. Here in our deluxe offices at Bonnywood Manor, we receive hundreds of contemptible queries that are, quite frankly, not worth the price of admission. If you will allow me to be so direct, my staff is compensated quite handsomely, and it does trouble me that much of their time is spent throwing worthless letters into the recycling bin.
Your inquiry, however, is very much a jewel. So meaty. I’m simply salivating at the prospect of responding. Scholarly saliva, of course. No tawdriness. Here’s hoping that other budding patients out there will learn from your admirable efforts, and quit sending me crudely-drawn cartoons depicting boring incidents wherein they weren’t sufficiently validated at the high school prom.
So why IS it that a salad prepared by someone else is more pleasing to our finicky digestive systems? This is very complex, indeed. Ergo, the salivation.
The basal, fundamental response is that preparing a fully redemptive salad is a tremendous amount of work. Yes, there are those who are satisfied with simply hacking away at a head of lettuce, throwing in a few sliced or diced tomatoes, maybe some dried-out pre-packaged carrot shreddings, and then calling it a done deal.
This is not a salad. This is not even rabbit food. Any rabbit who has attended even the most basic of culinary institutes will look at you with disdain when proffered this pathetic attempt at a salad, and will retreat to the furthest corner of their shelter.
No, a salad worthy of worship and praise requires far more components. There must be cucumber. Perhaps some bell pepper. (Green, red, yellow, reach for the stars.) The somewhat-risky sliced mushroom. The adventurous sliced black olive. Some onion, though I must confess I’m not a fan of leaving a huge ring of onion intact, hack that thing up for better distribution. And some chopped up boiled egg? Nirvana.
My point being, as I always have one, that’s why they pay me, is that the more ingredients you toss into a salad, the more love you share. But it IS a lot of work, very tedious. So if someone is willing to do all that work for you, with the sole intent of making you happy, then you truly have a love salad. And all is good.
But enough of that. Can’t get too emotional. That’s a stipulation of my license. If I had one.
The deeper meaning here, refreshing ray of intellectual sunshine from Kendrick, Oklahoma, is that there is apparently a salad ingredient which you strongly wish to avoid. That’s the root of the matter, if you will excuse the weak gardening pun. One of the choices in the array of available salad options gives you pause, causes hesitation. You hope quite fervently that someone, anyone other than you, is assigned the task of preparing leafy appetizers.
After a lengthy review of various salad components (radishes? tofu? hicima?) and a thorough study of your psychological profile that is easily available on the Internet (might want to secure a few files on your PC, just sayin), the answer became clear: It’s the crouton.
Obviously, there was an incident with a crouton in your troubled past. I don’t know if things were soggy when they shouldn’t have been, or if the seasoning on a particular crouton wasn’t pleasing, or if someone you love lost a tooth after encountering a bricklike example of said baked product. But clearly, you abhor the crouton. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to schedule your future sessions. We can work this out.
P.S. Please avoid salad bars until we have our next session. Thank you.