Salad Days

Yes, a bit late with this entry, but got sidetracked -- a lovely 'winterlude' at the Emp's northern island cottage. Readers may recall certain previous events at that venue, described in the entry "The Lost Spike" last October.

The same cast was present this time: Bohdan, the Manager of my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine; Sir Peter Crapp, a colleague in The Trade, and of course the Emp, who hosts (magnificently) these gatherings. What was unusual about this get-together was the incredibly wide range of topics under discussion, all under the rubric of --
Bohdan's salad.

Now it must be instantly admitted that this salad was very good indeed. A wonderful mix of garden leafage, delicately dressed with tender care. The problem was over-emphasis. At dinner that night, superb stuffed spareribs prepared by the Emp, seventeen and a half references were made by Bohdan to the glories of the salad. I say seventeen and a half, because the Emp had had enough, and ordered the references stopped before the eighteenth could be uttered.

Doesn't,however, take away from the fact that it was an excellent salad.

But this writing is really about discussion items. Sir Peter, for instance, brought forward two interesting 'p' words: 'pilated' (as in the woodpecker) and 'pizzle'. This latter term was unknown to the Emp and Bohdan, and were somewhat shaken to learn exactly what it was -- the penis of a bull. Its use as a whip didn't disturb, but when I mentioned that roasted pizzle was considered a delicacy in some cultures, that was a bit too much for the Emp, who fled to the kitchen and began preparing little meatballs for a hors oeuvre. I found his choice an interesting one, and began to connect....[Don't go there. Ed.] And before leaving 'p' words, I gained some praise from the Emp by unintentionally finding certain pliers that had been searched for long and hard. Moreover, all assisted in a successful endeavour to restore a much-treasured pot to its original state. On such things happiness rests.

The next day, after mentioning how good his salad was as a breakfast item, Bohdan then expounded on an article he was reading on Syria, and the grim behaviour of Bashar al-Assad and his attack on his own citizenry. What was of interest was Mrs. Assad. Her religious sect was one of the groups being shelled or bombed, and this behaviour on the part of her husband surely must put a wee strain on the relationship. Or so one might think.

Dinner at the Inn across from the island, a treat from Sir Peter, was excellent, although the Emp was not ecstatic, having ordered the wrong thing. All others were entirely satisfied with their servings, giving the lie to the adage connecting marriage with restaurant orders, to wit: "You are always satisfied with your choice, until you see what the other guy ordered."

I could go on about conversations on I-Pod apps, the aggression of blue jays, comedic films, and Ontario's flirting with a Grecian fiscal model, but enough is enough, and a good time was had by all. The Emp deserves much credit.

And the salad really was very good.