Those salad days

I used to love visiting friends' homes when I was a kid. It allowed for some juvenile investigative behavior on my part. From my general survey it appeared that many of my contemporaries were stellar athletes, academic brainiacs or bemedalled uniformed group members. Their living room display cabinets were more often than not crammed with sports trophies, book awards, embroidered badges, shiny pins, a veritable fest of everything gilded and ribboned.

In my thirty-one years as a sentient and partially productive being, I have only ever won 1 trophy. And what an almighty one it was, all of two-feet tall with a bulging thorax of plasticky gold (the strikingly same shade as the foil on chocolate coins), obligatory school crest, ribbons on each ear (in green, black and white), all perched on a laminate wood pedestal.

The inscription at the base of the trophy proudly declared,

SECOND PRIZE

Lower Secondary Salad Making Competition

Illustrious as that might sound, my leaf-tossing partner and I hadn't actually taken the competition all that seriously. Our end-product was some unfortunate mass of chicken mayo laid to rest on a bed of leafy greens. It was quite possibly Puiming's aesthetic touch which saved the day ... and the vinagrette.

Not entirely convinced by our own stab at the culinary rankings, we christianed the project 'Chicken Hoohah' - a half-dare with Fate so that if by some fluke (or sensory disability on the judges' part) we should win, then the MC would be pressed to announce the nonsensical name. Such is the arcane impenetrability of teenage humour.

As it turned out, Hoohah did us proud. But there is no chance for a replay of those salad days now I'm afraid, unless it's with mock chicken.