The magpie decorates her nest with a discerning eye: The strand of tinsel, glittering marble, comely twig. She finds it pleasing, comfortable and homey.
I too enjoy the feathered worknest: coffee cup, Rolodex, pencil stub, cord tangle, book buildup, chocolate reserve, phone stack, magazine slick, disc stash, noodle collage and hand-stitched porcupine.
As well as the odd piece of paper. Despite the computer’s promise to sweep the office paperless, mine tends toward papermore. The charming short story, appalling bill, good idea, menacing notice, paycheck, valentine, officious letter, grocery list, receipt crumple, report card, floor plan, recipe and impenetrable “explanation of benefits.”
Each so potentially important, I dare not discard it.
Instead I file, hooking up like-minded printouts into little Facebook enclaves where they can friend each other. Which is how I came to manage 50 linear feet of happily chatting detritus.
Then disaster struck. One day, moving men arrived to haul everything from here to there. These ruffians rousted each quivering paper from its home and stuffed it in a box. Randomly. Obviously, such criminals should have been booked on the spot. Instead, I paid them.
After which, my workspace suffered redecorating: Computer, balanced on box. Accompanied by 27 other boxes, filled with ex-files. They made adequate footrests and uneven work surfaces and sturdy pedestals. For a year, or two, or three.
Then one weekend, when children and husband and dog were on 48-hour leave, opportunity struck. Fueled by Thai takeout, I spent 47 hours and 59 minutes filing. With savage disrespect for tax audit or scrapbook, I tossed.
Amassing a 22-box discard pile. As well as quite a few empty cartons of som tam, a bracing lime-spiked salad of shredded green papaya, carrot, cilantro and shrimp. Like much of what I found in the moving boxes, it’s delightful fresh, and irrelevant if left to linger.
I scanned the heap. It was so heavy with stale poems and tender term papers and deeply personal check registers that it seemed indiscreet to let it linger in the alley. Poking at the shredded salad, I suddenly knew inspiration.
The truck arrived with EMS speed and in 20 minutes had munched the mess into fine confetti. Apparently, the paperless office owes little to the printer-compatible computer. And much to its companion, the shredder.
SHREDDED SALAD
Serves four
1 clove garlic
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1-1/2 tablespoons Asian fish sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
1 small fresh Asian or serrano chile
Salt
1/4 pound small peeled and deveined shrimp
1 small green papaya*
1 carrot
1/3 cup cilantro leaves
2 tablespoon roasted peanuts
1. Mash: Crush garlic with a mortar and pestle. Work in lime juice, fish sauce and sugar. Snap on rubber gloves to seed and chop chile. Spike dressing with as much-or little-heat as you like.
2. Boil: Bring a small saucepan of water to a boil. Salt lightly. Add shrimp and cook until pink, curled and just cooked through, 1 minute. Drain and rinse under cool water. Halve shrimp the long way. In a large mixing bowl, toss shrimp and dressing.
3. Shred: Peel papaya. Slice in half and shake out seeds. Shred into fine strands (the food processor proves helpful). Measure 3 cups into the mixing bowl. Peel and shred carrot and add, along with cilantro leaves. Toss well.
4. Serve: Coarsely chop peanuts. Sprinkle on salad. Enjoy at room temperature, immediately.
*Look for frim, deeply colored fruit marked “Green Papaya.” (Inner flesh is white and slightly bitter, like the lovechild of a cucumber-horseradish romance.) This may call for a trip to the Asian market, but who needs an excuse to explore the marvels of Super H Mart in Niles?
Provenance: Adapted from that highly organized site, Epicurious.com.
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LeahREskin@aol.com
