With or without crumbled crispy bacon, I have always had a soft spot for these types of salad, likely harkening back to the days when they, along with a side order of broiled mushrooms and steamed asparagus, were all I consumed at steakhouses. Until then, this recipe is flawless in its own right. Bring me a Heavenly Bed and a coconut rum cocktail and I might be willing to discuss my inconsistencies. Yes, like the steakhouse kind–by land and not sea. I cannot believe I am expected to subsist under these conditions.Īlas, this is the part where I am supposed to tell you about the Aruban cookbook I dutifully picked up at a gift store with mouth-watering recipes for fried plantains, coconut cake and pigeon pea stew and alarming ones for iguana soup, or at the very least, provide you with an approximation of a recipe for that tropical cocktail, but I’ve got none of that for you today because when I came home from vacation, all I craved was a classic iceberg wedge salad. But that’s not all this weather has been unseemly and in the greatest of indignities I have had to suffer through, its noon now and not a single waiter has offered to deliver a Tropicolada to my part of the sofa. I used to love our pillow-top bed, our thick feather duvets and our down pillows but since I’ve been home, they’ve been a constant source of disappointment: my sleep experience has been ruined. However, this vacation, this last step–the one when we begin to miss little parts of our regular lives–went terribly awry, and I blame a lot of this on those evil Heavenly Beds they have branded at Westin Hotels. That is, under the best of circumstances.
We ponder what plans we have made for the weekend we return. Without a singular event or laughable attempt at productivity that will serve as a demarcation between the days, we tend to blink twice and its day seven. cocktails called the Tropicolada and the uncanny ability to take a long post-cocktail nap despite having slept 10 hours the night before, and this is where everything descents into a haze.
By day three, however, we’re pretty used to it all: the bluest–aqua, really–ocean we have ever seen, silky white sand, absurd 3 p.m. Day two we start settling into the beach life–barefoot, sunscreened, our winter coats looking ridiculous hanging in the room’s closet–and make some dents in our books. Can you imagine how awful this must be after months of doing things and being ‘on’ and producing things of value for other people in exchange for earning a living? I’ll tell you, it’s a big adjustment.ĭay one is always a little bewildering we find ourselves saying “Wow, a whole week?” “Seven DAYS of this?” and “What will we do with ourselves?” a lot. No water skiing, no scuba diving, no afternoon of shopping, no conga lines: just hours upon hours on the beach, tearing through one book at a time. If there is one thing that Alex has shown me the light of over the course of our relationship–but fortunately, there are many, including ribs, pickles, bourbon and skiing–it’s the consummate beauty of a vacation that entails absolutely nothing.
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