There is nothing, I will hasten to add, wrong with a salad. But we're already having tuna steaks with fresh basil and tomatoes, It's Spring Dammit Hotdish (basmati and lovely vegetables), yams, avocado, berries, and, if I get my proverbial act together, roasted plums with optional ice cream and/or sorbet. (Optional. Hah.) So really, nobody needs a salad.
I think it's genetic, the periodic need to prepare every food item in the house. You'd think it'd get better when I'm comfortable with people, but no, it gets worse. "We've got some lovely oatmeal in the cupboard, you want I should make oatmeal? No oatmeal? How about farina?"
In other news, I have figured out a major tipoff to bad Mrissish moods: if I am wearing a college sweatshirt, you may feel sure that I am harried, annoyed, or just plain exhausted. I don't own other sweatshirts, so you don't have to get close enough to tell if it's a college sweatshirt. Lucky you.