My grandmother made this delicious salad last Sunday, and I was fond of it enough to accept the remaining bit from what was prepared, something I don't typically accept because I usually don't get around to eating leftovers.

But it was so good.

Different, but delectable.

It sounds strange, but it had broccoli and halved grapes—green and red!—slivered almonds and pineapple. The dressing consisted of mayonnaise and a spot of reserved pineapple juice. It was a lovely balance of flavors and I found myself quite enamored. I was having dinner with Nick that night, and brought the salad for a dinner-compliment.

Nick, being a sport, spooned a portion to his plate. I knew immediately that his infatuation with the recipe was nothing compared to mine, to the point of possibly being non-existent. I fought my impulse to drop my face to his plate and finish it myself, and won as he delineated what changes to the recipe would nourish his liking of the dish.

"Well, I'd take out the broccoli and almonds," he began, I nodded, encouraging his continuance, "and add melon or something."

Boring. "Nick, that's a fruit salad."

He pseudo-winked at me and hiked up that corner of his mouth, and through his smirk he followed up, "Well, exactly."