The quiet battle between fathers and their newly adult sons, as they jostle for position, can be fought on many fronts. For a long while the conflict between myself and Ed played out over that most contentious and ancient of territories: yes, salad. I would serve up a beautiful bowl of leaves with a bright dressing of olive oil, white wine vinegar and salt. He would try a forkful and stop. I would strive to make it better. He would decline even to try it.
Eventually one night, over the dinner table, I said: “You think my salad game is weak, don’t you?” These are the conversations we have in our house. We talk only about the important things. “No,” he said. “I just think you make salad the way you like it.”
