[contextly_auto_sidebar] Hungry beyond myself, I come to a cartoon field of wet, glossy globes. Leaping into mud, I get on my knees and lean over, biting and choking to swallow one down. The way nightmares work, I see the lettuces, run, bend and chew -- again and again. Then I wake up, blinking and faint. Iceberg. Caesar. Mesclun. Hedda. These make my two-syllable lettuce poem, and they're welcome, though my next thought is about the recently denigrated M.F.K. Fisher for her youthful lettuce memories. She wrote what she remembered and … [Read more...]