It’s not my best quality, but I have a hard time talking about kale or quinoa with a straight face. When an ingredient is everywhere, when it is treated as if it were the answer to all food questions — what might feed us dinner/a kid be tricked into eating in muffins/be juiced for longevity/and possibly even save the earth — I can’t help but want to rebel against it and both of these ingredients, these darlings of the farm-to-table circuit with their ubiquity on nearly every restaurant menu in lower Manhattan and upper Brooklyn, make easy targets. I know, I know, I should grow up and stuff.
Fortunately, I took what should be clear from the preceding paragraph was probably an overdue mini-vacation this past weekend, someplace warm and sunny, someplace that involved flip-flops. Do you mind if we take a brief but gratuitous mid-article daydream break?