Kitten's Kitchen. Part 2. Chef Mimi's Fresh Greek Salad

Spring passed gently, and in the little cottage beneath the lilac bush there reigned a cheerful liveliness. One morning, the dear Grandmother awoke earlier than usual and felt a certain pleasant weariness. On the previous day she had baked pies for the neighbor children, and now her hands longed for rest.

“Today, my darlings,” she said, seating herself by the window, “I should like only to watch. Which of you will dare to prepare our luncheon?”

Whiskers bowed respectfully, Mitzi nearly upset the salt cellar in excitement, but Mimi — gentle, snow-white Mimi — stepped forward with quiet grace.

“If you permit me, dear Grandmother,” she purred softly, “I would like to prepare something light and fresh, like the morning breeze.”

Grandmother smiled, for she had long perceived in Mimi a rare sense of harmony and measure.

“And what have you in mind, my child?”

“I remember how you once told the schoolchildren of a sunny land where the azure sea washes white houses. There they prepare a simple yet noble salad of vegetables and cheese. Allow me to make a Greek salad.”

“Ah,” said Grandmother approvingly, “simplicity is the sister of perfection.”

So Mimi tied on a tiny apron, which Grandmother had sewn for her from an old linen kerchief, and stepped solemnly into the kitchen. Whiskers took his place beside the table to maintain order, and Mitzi climbed upon a stool, promising not to cause mischief — though his eyes already sparkled with curiosity.

First of all, Mimi carefully washed the vegetables in cool water. She selected ripe, juicy tomatoes, firm and crisp cucumbers, a sweet red bell pepper, and a small head of purple onion.

“Remember,” she said importantly, repeating Grandmother’s lessons, “for a good salad one must choose the freshest vegetables, for in them lives the sun.”

She cut the tomatoes into generous wedges so that their juices would not escape too soon. The cucumbers she sliced into half-moons, leaving the skins intact, for, as Grandmother had taught, therein lies a special freshness. The pepper she removed from its seeds and cut into slender strips, like bright ribbons for a festive gown. The onion she sliced into the thinnest half-rings and, recalling wise advice, rinsed them briefly in cold water to soften their sharpness.

All the vegetables she placed into a large porcelain bowl and gently tossed them with a wooden spoon.

“Now,” continued Mimi, “it is time for the olives.”

She added a generous handful of dark, pitted olives, which gleamed like little jewels among the colors of the garden. Then came the most solemn moment: Mimi brought forth from the pantry a fine piece of feta cheese. White as marble, it gave off a delicate milky fragrance.

“The cheese must not be crumbled too finely,” she declared, “for each piece must retain its dignity.”

Thus she cut the feta into large cubes and carefully arranged them atop the vegetables.

There remained the dressing to prepare. Mimi poured three tablespoons of fine extra virgin olive oil into a small cup and added one tablespoon of freshly squeezed lemon juice, a pinch of salt, and a little freshly ground black pepper. Then she rubbed dried oregano gently between her paws so that its fragrance might awaken fully, and sprinkled it into the mixture.

“The secret lies in balance,” she said softly. “Neither the oil must overpower the lemon, nor the lemon the oil.”

She whisked the dressing lightly and poured it in a delicate stream over the salad. With the greatest care she tossed the vegetables once more, taking pains not to disturb the noble cubes of feta, which remained crowning the dish.

The kitchen filled with the aroma of freshness and distant seashores. Even Whiskers nodded in approval, while Mitzi, forgetting his promise, nearly licked the spoon.

When the salad was finished, Mimi adorned it with a final pinch of oregano and a few shining drops of olive oil.

Grandmother, who had observed all from her chair by the window, rose and approached the table. She tasted a spoonful and closed her eyes for a moment.

“My child,” she said at last, “you have prepared not merely a dish. You have preserved within it the sun, the freshness, and the harmony of distant lands. And above all, you have added your kind heart.”

Mimi modestly lowered her gaze, and Mitzi clapped his little paws in delight. That day they dined upon Greek salad with slices of fresh bread, and Grandmother felt that her pupils were truly becoming masters of the culinary art.

Thus did Mimi prove that even the simplest dish may become a small miracle when prepared with love and attention. And who knows — perhaps one day her name will be spoken with the same respect reserved in distant countries for the greatest of cooks.

But new trials and new recipes awaited them still, for the path to mastery, like every good fairy tale, is endless and filled with marvelous discoveries.