I planted rucola instead of geraniums this year. Best decision of the season.
It’s not a lot — just a small pot’s worth — but enough to harvest a handful of the freshest, most peppery leaves for lunch. There is something quietly triumphant about that.
A year ago, in Florence, at a small restaurant just steps from Santa Maria del Fiore, I got addicted to a salad I haven’t stopped thinking about since. Rucola, shaved Parmigiano, a drizzle of good extra virgin olive oil, and — his majesty — aged Balsamic.
Simple. Healthy. Deeply satisfying.
Today, with my own rucola, I made it again. Same ingredients, different terrace, different light. But the same feeling — that particular pleasure of a dish that asks nothing of you except to pay attention.
Wonderful memories, served in a plate.
Between the Lines 
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