Orange Lettuce Salad -- The Dinner of a Woman Who Just Needs to Breathe

The third catering contract is signed. The healthcare company: 60 people, bi-weekly lunches, $2,400 per delivery. Rita negotiated (the woman has earned her weight in cornbread — she has single-handedly increased my catering revenue through pricing confidence and contract language that I would never have written because I would have said "sure, whatever you want to pay" and Rita says "this is what it costs and the cost is: non-negotiable"). Total catering revenue now: three contracts, approximately $220,000 per year. Combined with restaurant revenue: we're on pace for $630,000 in 2027. The $600,000 goal that Rita set in January is: exceeded. Already. In June.

The growth means: I am in the kitchen less. The woman who built this restaurant by standing at the stove and making every cornbread and every pot of dumplings is now: in meetings. With Rita. With Rochelle. With corporate clients who want to talk about "food service solutions" (a phrase that makes me want to scream because my food is not a SOLUTION, it's FOOD, it's love made edible, it's Earline's hands translated into meals, and calling it a "solution" is like calling a sunset a "lighting event"). But the meetings happen because the meetings are how the business grows and the growing is: what the table does.

The kitchen is: Mona's now. Mostly. Mona runs the restaurant kitchen. She makes the cornbread in the morning (Earline's recipe, no sugar, the toothpick test, the notebook in her apron that she doesn't need anymore but carries anyway like a talisman). She runs the lunch service. She oversees DeShawn and Tamika. She is: the me I can't be when I'm in a conference room talking about "solutions." Mona is: the hands. I am: the voice. The business needs both. But I miss the hands. I miss the stove. I miss the 5 AM cornbread in the dark, alone, the silence that was mine, the prayer that was flour and bacon grease and heat. The 5 AM cornbread is still mine — I still make it, every morning, the first batch, before anyone arrives — but the rest of the day is: meetings. Spreadsheets. Emails. The other kind of cooking. The kind that doesn't smell like anything.

Chloe is working weekends. Her first paychecks are going into: savings. She opened a bank account (with my help, because she's fifteen and the bank requires a parent co-signer, which is a reasonable policy that Chloe considers an outrageous imposition on her independence). The savings are for: "a camera upgrade." A camera upgrade. The girl who has a DSLR with a 50mm prime lens wants: more. More camera. More lens. More of the tool that makes her art possible. The savings are: $480 so far. Ten weekends of work. The money earned. The money that is hers. The first money that a Mitchell woman earned from a Mitchell kitchen and saved in a Mitchell bank account and the saving is: the line continuing. Earline saved pennies. Lorraine saved coupons. Sarah saved for a college fund. Chloe saves for a camera. The line saves. The line continues. The saving IS the line.

Dinner: a salad. Just a salad. Grilled chicken on top. The dinner of a woman who is tired of cooking for other people and wants to eat something that requires no stove, no skillet, no heat. The salad is: the rest. The salad is: the breath. The salad is not cornbread. And sometimes not-cornbread is: exactly what you need.

The contracts are signed, the meetings are logged, and Mona has the kitchen handled — which means tonight, I get to not cook. Not really cook. The salad I came home to was this one: crisp lettuce, bright orange, something sweet and cold and entirely unbothered by a sheet pan or a skillet. I threw some grilled chicken on top because protein is non-negotiable (Rita would say that), sliced a few oranges, and sat down at my own table like a person who had nowhere else to be. The Orange Lettuce Salad isn’t Earline’s, it isn’t cornbread, it isn’t a solution — it’s just dinner, and right now, just dinner is everything.

Orange Lettuce Salad

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes (for chicken) | Total Time: 22 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 1 large head romaine or butter lettuce, torn into pieces
• 2 navel oranges, peeled and segmented
• 2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/4 small red onion, thinly sliced
• 1/4 cup sliced almonds, toasted
• 3 tablespoons olive oil (for dressing)
• 2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
• 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
• 1 teaspoon honey
• 1/4 teaspoon salt (for dressing)

Instructions

1. Season the chicken. Rub chicken breasts with 1 tablespoon olive oil, garlic powder, salt, and black pepper on both sides.
2. Grill the chicken. Heat a grill pan or outdoor grill over medium-high heat. Cook chicken 5–6 minutes per side until internal temperature reaches 165°F. Let rest 5 minutes, then slice thin.
3. Make the dressing. Whisk together 3 tablespoons olive oil, fresh orange juice, white wine vinegar, honey, and salt in a small bowl until emulsified.
4. Build the salad. Arrange torn lettuce in a large serving bowl or on individual plates. Top with orange segments, red onion, and toasted almonds.
5. Add the chicken. Fan the sliced grilled chicken over the top of the salad.
6. Dress and serve. Drizzle the orange dressing over the salad just before serving. Toss gently or serve undressed on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 320 | Protein: 28g | Fat: 16g | Carbs: 18g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 390mg