Generational Salad Dressing

My grandfather was a grump but the old man made a mean salad dressing.

When I was growing up, no one but my father ever made the salad dressing at our house. I can still hear the clinking of the worn, silver-plated dinner fork as he whipped up oil and vinegar, salt and pepper in a glass measuring cup. It was a sacred ritual of my childhood signaling the imminent serving of dinner.

We always had salad and it was always encased in my dad’s salad dressing. No additions such as dry mustard or garlic powder were ever allowed to sully the purity of the vinaigrette. It always tasted the same, and to this day, it is for me the only “real” salad dressing.

The making of salad dressing has passed through the generations of our family, a culinary heirloom from which there is no escape. When I first set up housekeeping, I was faithful to my dad’s process, pouring intuitive portions of oil and vinegar into a measuring cup, adding salt and pepper and beating it all up with a fork.

Later, when life got busier, I resorted to pouring oil and vinegar and sprinkling salt and pepper directly and randomly over green salad and tossing it all together. I’ve felt twinges of guilt for this departure from ritual even though I think my salad dressing is just as good s my dad’s was.

My grandson has been the salad dressing maker in his house since he was five. He will never resort to my time and dish-saving ways. Methodically, he pours oil, vinegar, salt and pepper into a cup and with serious intention and slow, even strokes, whips the ingredients before pouring them,  just before serving, onto the salad.

Perhaps it’s a guy thing.