Category: Clean Eats

Salads have such a bad reputation. Like, somewhere along the line we decided that a sad bowl of iceberg and a few tomato slices qualified as “healthy eating.” If you’ve ever pushed a pile of limp lettuce around your plate like it personally offended you, you know what I mean.

I don’t eat salad like that. I refuse. Life is too short and my taste buds are too sassy for watery lettuce. If I’m going to sit down with a big bowl of greens, it has to be something that feels like an actual meal—not punishment for eating cookies the day before.

Here’s what I’ve figured out: a good salad needs layers. Crunch, chew, creaminess, something juicy, something salty, maybe even a little sweet. Basically, it should feel like your mouth is at a party and everyone’s invited. Think toasted pumpkin seeds, juicy roasted chicken, creamy avocado, tart pickled onions, and a dressing that makes you say “okay fine, I’ll lick the bowl.”

And about dressings… Max once caught me side-eyeing a bottle of ranch in the grocery store. He just shook his head like, “Don’t even think about it.” I make my dressings at home because honestly it’s faster than arguing over whether the bottled stuff is “fine once in a while.” My go-to is olive oil, lemon, Dijon, honey, salt, pepper—shake it in a jar like you’re auditioning for a cocktail bar. Done.

Another trick? Roast something and throw it on top. Roasted sweet potatoes, crispy chickpeas, even leftover salmon. Suddenly it’s not “ugh, salad,” it’s “wow, look at me, eating like a goddess.”

And don’t be afraid of cheese. Yes, I said it. A crumble of feta or parmesan can make a salad feel indulgent in the best way. I’m not here for the sad lettuce diet. I’m here for food that feels good and tastes even better.

So, if you’re still making salads that taste like hospital food, it’s time for an intervention. Give your greens a little personality. Roast, crunch, drizzle, sprinkle. Max says my salads are “extra,” but he eats every bite and goes back for seconds—so maybe extra is exactly what we all need.

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So, let’s just say Max wasn’t exactly the poster child for eating vegetables. The man would happily eat chicken and rice every night until the end of time, and the closest thing to green on his plate would be the parsley garnish he picked off. Meanwhile, I’m over here, chef hat in hand, begging him to eat a roasted Brussels sprout like it’s a personal favor to me.

I tried the direct approach first. “Max, veggies are good for you.” He looked at me like I’d just told him water is wet. Not effective. So, I had to get sneaky.

The first trick: roast them. Roasted veggies are like the glow-up version of their soggy steamed cousins. Toss them in olive oil, sprinkle with salt, maybe paprika if I’m feeling wild, and suddenly carrots are candy and Brussels sprouts are crunchy little miracles. Max ate half a sheet pan one night before realizing they weren’t “seasoned fries.”

Next move: disguise. I started grating zucchini into pasta sauce, blending cauliflower into mashed potatoes, and slipping spinach into smoothies. One morning, Max told me his smoothie “tasted extra fresh.” Yep, buddy—that was a whole handful of spinach you didn’t even notice.

And then there’s the magic of dips. Somehow veggies are irresistible when they’re dunked in something. I’ll roast broccoli and serve it with a little tahini sauce, and Max is all in. He even said once, “This could be a snack,” which in Max language is basically a standing ovation.

Do I always win? No. There was a tragic kale chip experiment that still haunts me. But little by little, his plate has gotten greener without him feeling like he’s chewing on lawn clippings. And now, every time I catch him reaching for roasted sweet potatoes like they’re candy, I get this smug little thrill.

So yes, Max eats vegetables now. And if I can convert my meat-and-potatoes guy without bribes or ultimatums, you can absolutely trick your people into loving veggies too. Just don’t call them “healthy”—call them delicious, crispy, saucy, anything but healthy. Trust me, it works.

Some days I’m the chef who can whip up a three-course meal like I’m auditioning for a Food Network show. And then there are the other days. You know, the ones where opening the fridge feels like an Olympic event and I’d rather eat cereal straight from the box than cook. That’s when my pantry swoops in like the true hero of the house.

Let’s start with oils. I keep olive oil and avocado oil like some people keep wine—always stocked, always ready. Olive oil is my drizzle-on-everything queen, and avocado oil is my ride-or-die for high-heat cooking. I once ran out of both and tried to cook eggs in coconut oil, and Max said the kitchen smelled like sunscreen for three days. Lesson learned.

Grains are my other lazy girl lifesaver. Quinoa, rice, oats—boring maybe, but they’re like blank canvases. You can throw literally anything on them and suddenly it looks intentional, like “oh yes, this was totally a grain bowl, not just me panic-cooking at 7 p.m.” One night I topped quinoa with roasted sweet potatoes, chickpeas, and feta, and Max thought it was some fancy recipe. Nope. Just pantry roulette.

Canned beans deserve a round of applause too. Black beans, chickpeas, white beans—I keep them lined up like little soldiers. They rescue me when I forget to thaw meat or when I need something filling in five minutes flat. Pro tip: rinse them really well unless you’re into that mysterious bean goo vibe.

And let’s not forget the “extras” that make lazy meals taste less lazy: tahini for quick sauces, nut butter for everything from toast to stir-fries, and dark chocolate for, well, survival. If I’m feeling extra adult-y, I’ll keep jarred pesto around too. It turns pasta from “plain carbs” into “wow, I made dinner.”

Honestly, my pantry isn’t glamorous, but it’s reliable. On those nights when cooking feels like climbing a mountain barefoot, I know I can open the cabinet, grab a few basics, and still end up with something that makes me feel taken care of. And that’s all I want at the end of a long day: food that loves me back without making me sweat over a stove for an hour.