We own two salad spinners. Not due to any well documented rationale. I think I picked an extra up at the thrift store. You know, just in case. But no matter how many I own I still have to use it. It is kind of fun to whirl the head around as I pump down on the middle. Still sometimes I rush. There are brands of Romaine at the store whose packages clearly state "triple washed". Maybe they know something.

One time, well all right, several times, I have served John salad when I single washed. He poked his fork eagerly into the crispy leaf only to have it inches from his lips when he saw a glob of mud. Not big enough to plant flowers in. But large enough to whack at his appetite. 

No matter how delicious the carrots and cherry tomatoes are, a brown blob is a downer. 

There is a woman I often see that I almost criticized last year. It felt significant enough to bring up at the time, though these months later it seems trite. I remember rehearsing my case, but the opportunity was never opportune. I kept my mouth shut. 

Whew. 

Each time we chat it is friendly, and the possibility of having come so close to tossing mud on our relationship, however small a blob, seems like a near miss.

There is another woman who did not hold back in her reprimand of me a few years ago. The memory pops its gnarled head up each time I see her even though she has probably forgotten all about it. I have not, if only because there have been no cordial interchanges since to neutralize the sting. 

It's not hard, really. To triple wash. My produce and my words.