The moment she pushed the bowl away, the restaurant’s chatter blurred into a low hum, as if the room itself were holding its breath. The server’s apology came quickly, the manager’s explanation even faster: produce is washed, inspected, checked—but nature is stubborn, and perfection is a myth. The kitchen tossed the salad, comped her meal, and promised a call to their supplier.
Later, at home, she rinsed her own lettuce with a new kind of focus, fingers parting every leaf, eyes scanning for what she once assumed could never be there. The experience didn’t turn her against fresh food; it simply stripped away the illusion that “healthy” automatically means “harmless.” Now, each quiet pause before a bite is less about fear and more about respect—for her instincts, for the food chain, and for the fragile trust between them.
