I may be a happily cliched rom-com loving, yoga-doing Wine Mom, but I refuse to be typecast as a salad person.
It's not that I have any strong objections to a big bowl of cold, crisp, frequently green things. I just, a bit like Ron Swanson, frequently find myself skeptical that I'm going to get enough to eat. A good salad to me likely has Fritos in it. Or at least bacon. I knew I was in the right place when, in a restaurant deep in the Midwest, I once ordered a salad and the waitress asked if I'd like a pork chop on it.
