Have you ever had a bad salad? This past week I saw a headline on Yahoo that referred to a review of some of the worst salads at restaurants. I was struck with awe. I searched my mind to think of how a restaurant can actually make a bad salad. To make a good salad, you need good lettuce and some sort of dressing. That’s it. A six-year-old can do it. In fact, to prove this, I marched right down to Miss Hubble’s Montessori School and presented an idea to the Principal, Anita Hubble Mellon.

Mrs. Mellon had large breasts. Yeah, she’s stuck with a name that befits her. I’m sure she gets enough comments, so let’s leave that one alone for now and get down to business. I told Mrs. Mellon, whose father’s mother started the pre-school in 1929, right after the Crash, that I was looking for an average above-average child who could make a salad. Mrs. Mellon, who was wearing a low-cut, cleavage-flaunting flowery dress that, in the other direction, was hiking up her thighs, said, “I’ve got just the pupil.”

I don’t like the word pupil. It reminds me of eyeballs at first, then secondly it reminds me of school. When I was in school I was referred to as a pupil. I wasn’t a pupil; I was a kid just trying to get through the system. I was good, did my homework, made an occasional wisecrack and ran home at the end of the day like a jailbird making a run for it. I didn’t like the tag, and ever since have cringed when I hear the word. I told this to Mrs. Mellon and she lowered her eyebrows at me in disapproval. I backed off, but my God, she was beautiful when she was stern. She was wearing spiked heels and had shapely legs. I almost forgot to tell you that.

Mrs. Mellon went to the filing cabinet in the corner of her room and ran her finely manicured fingers down the length of the cabinet. I got the chills. Then she came to a stop at the bottom drawer and said, “Here we go. Okey dokey.” She bent over and opened the drawer. I couldn’t help but watch. I was mesmerized by her tush. It was like a scene from a Vaudeville comedy when the nurse bends over in front of the patient and he dies of a heart attack. The doctor walks in and says, “What happened to Mr. Weaver?” And the nurse turns around, walks over to the bed, pokes the patient and exclaims to the audience, “Oh my goodness, doctor, he’s as hard as a board.”

Anyway, Mrs. Mellon found what she was looking for. She produced a file on a child named Allan Riggles, III. She said he is a kid genius. He can play the piano and name all the presidents. No, I told her, too smart. Put Riggles back in the file and find me an average kid, one who is just a kid. She leafed through some more files then found Jason Ferdig. then she went to her desk and called over the P.A. system to room number 3.

Mrs. Mellon: Miss Stanley?
Miss Stanley (speaking back through the PA system in her classroom): Yes, Mrs. Mellon? Are you having a lovely day?
Mrs. Mellon: We have a very distinguished guest here in my office. We need a volunteer and we’ve chosen Jason Ferdig to come down and perform a little experiment.
Miss Stanley: Okay, Mrs. Mellon. I’ll send Jason down right away. Have a lovely day.

While waiting for Jason to come to the office, I explained to Mrs. Mellon that I was incensed over the fact that bad salads were being made in certain restaurants around town.

“Inexcusable!” she blurted out. But her eyes were smiling at me.
“I agree, and hence my experiment. I want to prove to the world that even a six-year-old can make a decent salad. Nay, a great salad.”
“I’m right behind you,” said Mrs. Mellon.

I thought to myself, if you’re right behind me, I’ll surely know it. Five minutes passed before Jason Ferdig entered the room. How can I describe the little guy? Okay. He was small, about the size of a hobbit, but with normal sized feet. He wore a suit, dark rimmed eye glasses and his hair was combed back. He also was wearing a conservative tie and a pin on his lapel that read, “Karl Rove Must Go.” He was ahead of his time. Jason Ferdig was a forced to be reckoned with.

I had the salad stuff all set up. Mrs. Mellon supplied me with a big table, a little platform for Jason to stand upon and some dish towels. I supplied a bowl, two heads of lettuce, a tomato, a cucumber, some croutons, some olives, and a bottle of oil and a bottle of vinegar. Plus there were some other incidentals. When Jason looked at me through those big brown eyes Mrs. Mellon beamed like a parent so proud of her offspring.

Jason: What do you want?
Me: That’s certainly direct. I like you.
Jason: (nothing said)

Me: Are you married?

Jason: Are you going to pummel me all day with bad lines, or is there a point?

Me: I want you to make a salad. I shall say no more.
Jason: The fewer the words the better.

At this point, Jason removed his jacket, neatly folded it over a chair, rolled up his sleeves and dawned a Mickey Mouse apron. He then washed his hands carefully and dried them with a dishtowel. Mrs. Mellon was thrilled already, like this was her first time at the circus. Her breasts were giggling. I was a little nervous about the knife on the table, but I was assured it wasn’t too sharp. Jason picked it up and studied it under the light, then put it to the tomato.

Jason: Who provided this piece of crap? It’s as dull as a presidential fireside chat. It simply won’t do.

He exhaled in frustration and disapproval, then went to his locker in the other room. Apparently, each kid has his and her own locker. He came out with a little wooden case and opened it on the table. Inside was a collection of fine dinner knives, a crystal brandy snifter and a yo yo. Like an iron chef in the guise of a Harry Potter understudy, Jason took out the knife and within three minutes had sliced the cucumber, tomato, olives and whatnot and laid them out on the table. Next he took the lettuce to the sink and washed it thoroughly. Then he narrated as he worked…

Jason said, Lettuce is like a fine woman. You have to handle it with tenderness. This way it will serve you well. You tear it; you don’t cut it, and you remove the dead and dying leaves. These smell like jungle rot, which is unappetizing. Next you carefully fold all of your accoutrements into the lettuce in the same bowl. Ahah, at last we apply the oil and vinegar; just a splash of vinegar with ample oil. if you want you can sprinkle the whole deal with some parmesan. Magnificent! Use only organic, the other stuff will kill you dead. You eat stuff with pesticides and your guts will turn to mush by the time you’re forty three.

Forty three? Why that number? What a kid! In ten minutes he made an outstanding salad then departed with his tools. Mrs. Mellon and I broke out a bottle of wine and turned off the lights. We made googoo eyes at one another as we ate the salad. It was incredible. I also broke out a bottle of wine from Cote d’ Rhone region and poured us each a little in Sponge Bob paper cups. Mrs. Mellon put on a Tony Bennet CD and I stared at her breasts. She didn’t seem to mind and I was delighted. That day was the last time I saw her, but I shall never forget the special moment we shared near the crayons and paste. It was the only time I ever enjoyed being in the principal’s office.

The bottom line is that our random six-year-old made a perfect salad. This means that if you go to a restaurant and the salad is NOT good, it was probably made by a beast in the back with four thumbs and a pronounced frontal ridge. it’s the only way a bad salad can be made.

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