Waldorf Salad

I remember a long time ago in another life going to a girlfriend's mother's house for dinner with her family. Something called waldorf salad was served. I know that this often has apples, walnuts, mayonnaise, and sometimes other things. One of these other things is raisins, which would be difficult enough to choke down, but I believe this particular concoction had dates. Dates often grow in deserts or places with very little food. The reason for this is that no one would eat dates unless they were starving and nothing else was available, and even then death may be preferable. Anyway, apparently the inclusion of dates, and I think it's safe to say that the mayonnaise was not a pleasant combinant, was a family specialty. Small wonder we never married. But I digress. When served the bilious side dish, I chose to consume it first before proceeding to the edible portion. It is an interesting exercise in human behavior to see whether people when confronted with a better food and a lesser food (and by extension situations beyond food), save the better food for last or consume it first. That really tells something about a person. I save the better food for last, getting the bad food out of the way first. There is an argument that one should eat what one likes best before one gets full and no longer has room for the good stuff, but capacity has never been an issue for me. A variation on the ant and the grasshopper, I suppose.

By wolfing down the accursed putrescence first, holding my breath all the while, I found myself confronted by the inevitable comment: "You sure ate that waldorf salad fast; I'm so pleased you liked it." Now what? Beyond her family, the old woman took great pride in her garden and cooking. No gardenias were at hand, and there was no offending the beloved matriarch, especially when surrounded by the adoring clan. Being my smooth self (hardly), I made the perfunctory and expected compliments, and soon found myself gagging on a third helping of that vile rancidity. Better yet, future visits to the house were often marked by special preparations of that Kirvorkian noxiousness in my honor. Oh the humanity...

There must be a lesson here. A kind lie is sometimes not so kind, and in fact is disrespectful, if not demeaning, in assuming that the listener is so fragile that the truth would be devastating. One can be polite and tactful in telling the truth gently but directly. "You're a great cook and visiting is really a treat, but I guess I'm not a fan of dates so I'll pass on the second helping so I can have more room for that apple pie" or something to that effect would have saved a number of near-death experiences. So scale back some of those white lies- you don't have to wash your hair, you're not going to call her, you don't already have plans. The kindly worded truth is the real kindness.