The Antidepressant Salad

Or: Sunshine on a F***ing Plate

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It’s been raining for a week and everything just feels so…gray. The morning walks I like to take to clear my mind and absorb a little vitamin D have become impossible— or at least impractical— and my brain has become as jellied as a Cockney’s eel. Or worse, like a nervous hagfish— the mental goo floods my brain and sticks to every thought. So I’ve spent the past few days washing floors and rearranging furniture and pretty much anything else that doesn’t require much in the way of complex thought.

I found myself perched backwards on a chair the other day, staring out my living room window at the rain falling from a Gainsborough gray sky onto the slate gray tiles of my neighbor’s roof much like an indoor cat contemplating a life on the outside who ultimately thinks, “Nah. Too much work.”

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I caught myself in the window’s reflection and looked down at what I was wearing— arsenic grey gym shorts and a charcoal gray t-shirt, which set off my silver gray beard rather nicely, but honestly it was a bit much. And then I took note of the shade I chose to paint the walls. Porpoise gray. I hoped the color would suggest “sophisticated bachelor”, which it does sometimes in the evening when I slowly sip a very dry martini to the music of Blossom Dearie or Bobby Short, but on rainy afternoons it just whispers “depressive middle aged gay man”.

Gray on gray on gray.

There I was, dressed neck to knee in gray, looking out on a gray street, surrounded by four grey walls.

Gray on gray on endless gray.

“You are an idiot,” I said quietly but not too harshly. My therapist and I agree that I need to be kinder to myself. We also agree that I need to start being more proactive in terms of battling my depression— showering, going for walks, reaching out to friends, not telling myself I’m a failure as a human being and wholly undeserving of love. That sort of thing. But know what? Surrounding myself with the most depressing color in the world never came up in our sessions.

I knew I had to do something about my current, Eeyore-esque state of mind. I waited for a break in the downpour, put on a powder blue hoodie and made a dash to the nearest grocery store.

I had in mind a salad I made years and years ago on my now-euthanized blog wherein every single ingredient had antidepressant properties: citrus, beets, walnuts, maple syrup and I remember it being surprisingly good. I also remember eyeballing the finished product and thinking, “It looks like sunshine on a fuckin’ plate”.

I curse to myself. A lot. Sometimes in a South Philly accent.

I scanned the aisles of my local Whole Foods collecting the ingredients necessary to re-create my antidepressant salad. Golden beets? Yup. A variety good looking citrus? Check. Really expensive maple syrup? Check and double check. Walnuts?

What kind of store runs out of walnuts in early February?

No big deal. I had lots of hazelnuts at home. Hazelnuts might not take on depression, but they do improve one’s sperm count, if that’s important to you.

I managed to get everything home before God’s own choir of incontinent angels had time to regroup and piss on my parade. I then unpacked everything, arranged the oranges, popped on some Mapp & Lucia, and got down to work.

The thought of suprêming the oranges left me a bit cold, since my knives are in dire need of a proper sharpening and I know to my cost the dangers of sectioning citrus with a dullish blade, so I sliced them crosswise instead— so much less effort but still nice to look at.

The beets were easy— just a thin coating of olive oil, a sprinkle of kosher salt and popped in a 350°F oven for 40-odd minutes. I had hoped to cool mine thoroughly, but ended up peeling them while they were still warm because I’m an impatient person, which is apparently one more thing I need to bring up with my therapist.

When the beets were at room temperature and I was sufficiently calm, I cut them into 1/2-inch slices across the grain (as thick as I sliced the citrus), which gives them a lovely bullseye effect. I then placed the beets in a shallow glass container and gave them a liberal coating of cider vinegar and mirin to punch up their flavor and keep them from turning as black as Winston Churchill’s dog. I let them sit covered in the refrigerator while I napped (about 1 hour).

When it was time to assemble, I decided to keep things simple by alternating pieces of orange and golden beet in an overlapping circle. Then I garnished with roasted hazelnuts, drizzled with hazelnut oil (olive or walnut oil work very nicely, too), wasn’t stingy with the maple syrup, and sprinkled a heavy pinch of sea salt over the whole thing.

It may not be the most photogenic salad ever created, but it’s a lovely thing to shove in your gob. It’s simple in both preparation and presentation, but wonderfully complex on the tongue. And it’s just as versatile. I sometimes vary the citrus to spice things up a bit. Cara Cara oranges work well, as do tangerines and pomelos (if you can get your hands on any).

Use whatever nuts you like, too. Walnuts, hazelnuts, pistachios. Whatever floats your particular nut boat. As long as you’ve got the wherewithal to plan ahead in terms of beet roasting, you’ve got yourself a quick and fairly low-effort antidepressant salad, which is great for when the gloom descends weather-wise or mood-wise.

I’ve eaten it twice this week already and I’m considering upping my dosage because, no matter how you slice (or suprême) it, it’s just sunshine on a fuckin’ plate.

So give it a go, if you want to. Apart from burning your house down with faulty oven wiring or severing a finger with the slip of a dull knife, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

On second thought, don’t answer that question. Just eat the salad. Your therapist will be very glad you did.

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