IntroductionI had a dream.
I was seated in the studio audience watching the taping of an episode of
Friends. Monica was standing in her funky apartment kitchen, whipping up a recipe from Every Salad Ever.
Chandler, seated at the table, picked up my cookbook and thumbed through it with exaggerated flair. “Could there BE any more salads in here?” He slammed the book shut with mock drama just as Joey walked in.
“Hey, Mon, what’s for dinner?” Joey asked, sniffing the air like a hound on the scent. Without missing a beat, Chandler replied, “Take a wild guess. It starts with ‘sal’ and ends with ‘ad.’ ” Joey frowned. “Salad? Salads are for sissies! I like MAN FOOD!” He pounded his chest with his fist like Tarzan.
Monica rolled her eyes and handed Joey a heaping bowl of my Loaded Italian Pasta Salad. “Well, you’re in luck, Joey. This one’s got pasta, salami and cheese—basically your three food groups.”
Joey stared at the salad, his eyes wide with delight. Cradling the bowl like a long-lost love, he delivered his classic line in his trademark flirty tone, “How YOU doin’?”
The audience roared with laughter, and I woke up with a smile, thinking,
If it’s good enough for Joey Tribbiani, it’s good enough for the world! I’m obsessed with
Friends, and I’m equally obsessed with salads.
Back in the ’70s, when Mom made salad for me and my five sisters, we knew exactly what we were getting: iceberg lettuce, a few token tomato wedges (Did grape tomatoes even exist?) and some grated carrots for color. That was the holy trinity of homemade salads—there were no frills, no surprises and certainly no arugula.
As for dressing? We had three choices: bottled Ranch, French or Thousand Island. I’ve never understood the appeal of Thousand Island dressing. Besides, isn’t it a burger sauce? French and Ranch weren’t my faves either, but one day Catalina entered my life and changed everything. It was like French dressing’s sassier, spicier cousin—the one with tattoos and an attitude. It was a sweet-and-tangy red elixir that somehow made even the most basic iceberg salad feel more gourmet—at least to me. Suddenly, salads weren’t just a mandatory side dish; they were something to look forward to.
Potlucks and family gatherings had their own lineup of salads, with most containing more mayo than vegetables. My mom made all the creamy classics: potato salad (extra dill pickles, of course), coleslaw (with cabbage from our garden) and macaroni salad (with a generous scoop of Miracle Whip and a sprinkle of paprika for that “fancy” touch). These were the salads we gobbled up at every barbecue, every holiday and every family get-together. (Come to think of it, a meal in the ʼ70s wasn’t complete unless one dish had mayonnaise binding it together.)
Special occasions meant busting out the four-bean salad or, if you really wanted to impress, you’d serve a molded gelatin “salad” with various canned fruits suspended in its neon wobble. Despite their simplicity—or maybe because of it—those early salads sparked a lifelong love.
Once I got my driver’s license in high school, my salad obsession soared to new heights. Borrowing my mom’s Ford Granada and with girlfriends Jill, Beth and Stacy in tow, I discovered what felt like the pinnacle of salad innovation at the time: Yup, you guessed it, the Wendy’s salad bar. For a mere $3.99, it became our regular lunchtime destination, an all-you-can-eat buffet of chopped romaine, unlimited toppings and oily-but-yummy dressings that we’d pile sky-high on our plates like some type of edible Jenga tower.
I can’t say for sure, but I strongly suspect our teenage salad feasts contributed to the eventual shutdown of Wendy’s salad bars across the country. You can’t turn a profit when teenagers are eating their weight in macaroni, shredded cheddar and ladles of Catalina for under four bucks, can you?
Fast forward to today. Salads have seriously leveled up from somewhat forgettable to absolutely fabulous—and I’m here for it! They’re no longer
just side dishes; they’re often main events, packed with flavor and full of personality. They’re creative, colorful and adventurous, fitting every mood, every craving and every occasion. The days of boring iceberg with glugs of Catalina are long gone (You listening, brother-in-law Gary?). Welcome to the new era of salads—you’re going to love it here.
So, what’s changed?
Greens got an upgrade: Iceberg has stepped aside for baby arugula, kale, spring mix and every sprout under the sun.
Dressings went DIY: Bottled dressings still exist (and some are really tasty!), but now we whisk up zippy vinaigrettes, “creamy” vegan cashew dressings and bold, herb-infused blends using various wine vinegars and high-quality olive oil instead of plain white vinegar and the suspicious-sounding “salad oil” of the past.
Toppings turned top-notch: Spicy chickpeas, Parmesan shavings, pomegranate seeds, pickled onions, chimichurri—anything goes in today’s elevated salad world.
Global flavors took center stage: Salads now feature bold flavors from every corner of the world—Mediterranean, Asian, Middle Eastern, Latin American—you name it.
Grains and proteins joined the party: Quinoa, farro, lentils, grilled steak, shrimp skewers—salads are no longer just vegetables.
Oh, and while I’m on the topic of salads having a glow up, have you noticed that kale is currently living its best life? It gets massaged with oil and rubbed with sea salt like it’s at a high-end spa, then adorned with the trendiest toppings—roasted edamame, toasted pine nuts and grilled avocado with a lemon-tahini vinaigrette. Kale is basically the Beyoncé of greens with romaine and spinach as the background dancers. There’s even a line of merch emblazoned with “Eat More Kale.” Spinach could never. (If you’re a fan of kale, you’re in for a treat with my kale salad recipes. Not keen on kale? You’re about to be converted.)
After browsing through the pages of
Every Salad Ever, some of you will wonder—where’s the goat cheese? Well, spoiler alert: It’s nowhere. Not in this book, not on my plate, not in my fridge. If you love it, I respect you. But for me? That tangy farmyard-flavored crumble is a firm no, hard pass, immediate eject button. To quote the famous lyrics of Daryl Hall & John Oates, “I can’t go for that. No can do.” I’d rather lick a goat’s face. Tip: I’m guessing that anywhere I use feta, goat cheese would work but, let’s be honest, feta is the GOAT. (Rant over. Thanks for listening!)
Copyright © 2026 by Greta Podleski. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
