Mediterranean Cobb Salad

I turned forty-four this week. One year after Nikos died. One year of firsts — first Easter, first Christmas, first birthday without the phone call from Baba, the one where he would say happy birthday in the gruff voice of a man who did not know how to be tender and was tender anyway. The phone did not ring this year with his voice. It rang with Mama's, singing happy birthday in Greek, her voice wavering but unbroken. It rang with Alexander calling between classes. It buzzed with a text from Sophia — a long one, surprisingly sweet, the kind of text a fourteen-year-old sends when she wants to say I love you but is too embarrassed to say it out loud.

I spent my birthday working. I showed three houses and closed on one — a bungalow in Seminole Heights, first-time buyers, a young teacher and her husband. I handed them the keys and they looked at each other and I thought: I remember that look. The look of people who think they have arrived. They have. Every house is an arrival. Even the houses you lose later.

Mama threw me a birthday dinner at Sunday's gathering. Galaktoboureko, as promised — the custard pie with lemon syrup that Baba loved. Dimitri brought ouzo. The boys sang happy birthday badly and enthusiastically. Despina sat in her chair and said I look tired. I said I have looked tired since 2010, Yia-yia. She said that is true. Mama said eat, you are too thin. I am not too thin. I am the size of a woman who eats moussaka three times a week and calls it research. But Mama thinks everyone under sixty is too thin, and arguing is pointless.

Forty-four. I counted the year in losses and gains the way a business counts its books. Lost: Baba. Gained: nothing can replace him. Lost: the illusion that time is infinite. Gained: the knowledge that it is not, which makes every Sunday dinner and every batch of avgolemono and every imperfect phyllo triangle more precious than it was a year ago. I am not the woman I was at forty-three. That woman was in the first year of grief. This woman is in the second, and the second year is not easier but it is different — the grief has settled into the architecture of me, become a load-bearing wall instead of a wrecking ball.

I made a dinner for myself on the actual night — whole branzino roasted with lemon and herbs, a glass of wine, a horiatiki salad. I ate alone and it was not sad. It was a woman choosing her own company and finding it good. Forty-four. The olive oil is generous. The lemons are plentiful. The bakery smells like honey. I am here. I am still here. That is enough.

That solo birthday dinner — the branzino, the good wine, the quiet satisfaction of my own company — put me in the mood to keep eating well for myself the rest of the week, not just on the ceremonial night. A Mediterranean Cobb felt right: all the bright, generous flavors of the table I grew up at, but arranged into something entirely mine, no occasion required. It’s the kind of salad Baba would have called “a meal that respects you,” and I’m inclined to agree. Here’s how I make it.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

6 cups chopped romaine lettuce
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1 English cucumber, diced
1/2 cup Kalamata olives, pitted and halved
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/4 red onion, thinly sliced
2 hard-boiled eggs, quartered
1/2 cup roasted red peppers, sliced
1/4 cup pepperoncini, sliced
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon fresh oregano leaves (or 1 teaspoon dried)
For the lemon herb vinaigrette:
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
1 small garlic clove, minced
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Make the vinaigrette. Whisk together olive oil, lemon juice, red wine vinegar, garlic, dried oregano, salt, and pepper in a small bowl until emulsified. Taste and adjust seasoning. Set aside.
Prep the base. Arrange the chopped romaine across a large wide bowl or platter—you want room to build the rows.
Build the rows. Arrange the toppings in distinct rows across the romaine: cherry tomatoes, cucumber, olives, feta, red onion, quartered eggs, roasted red peppers, and pepperoncini. This is a Cobb, so let it be beautiful.
Add the herbs. Scatter fresh parsley and oregano over the top. The herbs are not optional. They are what make it taste like something a Greek grandmother would approve of.
Dress and serve. Drizzle the lemon herb vinaigrette generously over the salad just before serving. Toss at the table, or leave the rows intact for presentation. Serve with good crusty bread and, if the occasion calls for it, a glass of white wine.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mediterranean Cobb Salad — The Salad I Made for Myself on My Birthday