Sunny Spinach Salad

It wasn't the most comforting of years, 2011 — no, it wasn't. It was challenging in more ways than one.

Contraptions around the house went kaput. The house itself creaked and leaked. Folks flew away. Things fell apart. Immunity and fitness wavered. Work schedules went haywire. Travel plans went awry. Wallets lost weight. The weight-loss plan piled on the pounds! The moods swung and rung like a carillon of bells. The summer was rained out; the monsoons were stormy; autumn sulked out of sight; winter was first warm, then wet...

Of course, challenges do create opportunity too. Contraptions were repaired and replaced. The house got fresh brick, mortar, plaster, paint, wiring, tiling, lighting... Folks flew in — and dropped in! Things came together, whimsically, when least expected. A fitness plan was resumed. Work got done, by the seat of the pants; concentration (to ignore the chaos) increased. Travelling took place. New work was sought — and found. The pounds finally budged. Moodiness was made room for, even enjoyed. The wardrobe rotation got a bit of a rest. The wellies came in handy. The garden was pulled up. Next year's seedlings were well-tested by the weather gods and goddesses...

But the best thing about challenges is the way they throw up surprises, pushing you to try something you never thought you'd get up to. Until it becomes a good, brave habit. Until — supermarkets refusing to stock your favourite South African pear — you bite the Chinese bullet: bring home the crunchy, sandy-fleshed Asian pear you used to abhor and let it mellow to nearly rotten. Until you find yourself at the wet market one gloomy morning, the last of 2011, delighted by the tender young spinach leaves and sunflower-bright pumpkin flowers — and come home whooping, 'Salad!'

All through the last decade of feeding a fretful salad fetish, I had bemoaned the fact that we in India refuse to grow our greens ready-to-eat. It's not just a matter of hygiene, I argued with timid-in-the-kitchen aunts, friends, cousins, colleagues; it was that they were not even the right tender age and silky soft texture to jive with just a dressing down.

As for pumpkin blossoms, had you told me this time last year that I might want to chomp on one raw, I would have reached for your dewlap to give you a massage that (hopefully) soothed your fevered brain — or short-temperedly suggested you do a Ferdinand yourself, depending on my mood of the moment.

But it was a nothing left-to-lose last day of an 'interesting' ('exciting'? 'experimental'?) year. And neither of us wanted frittered flowers with our very short (think crisp and fatty and flaky, not vertically challenged) khachapuri lunch. So I found myself... discovering a great green bowl starring the produce grown in my own Bengali backyard!

Peeling off a bouquet of petals from the pumpkin blossoms...

Sifting through the spinach in search of the babies of the bunch...

Shelling sunflower seeds with a (recently rediscovered) vintage betel-nut shredder...

Shaking out the bottle of orphaned pumpkin seeds saved from last year, still a surprisingly lively green...

Dicing the juicy Nashi rescued from my cabin baggage, a bit bruised from aviation and assorted perambulations...

And massaging the lot with golden-green olive oil and balsamic vinegar, with a pinch of black pepper for grit.

It was a good balanced bowl, as goodbyes go.



So good we may not let it go — and might make more this year! (After all, 2011 taught us to 'make do' with flair, and that's a habit worth holding on to — sometimes, it lets you strike gold. Or sunshine... Or salad.)