My salad spinner is sadly maimed, a victim of a long forgotten and best unremembered incident involving a recalcitrant toaster. Now, we have but the inner mesh strainer portion and a bizarrely warped outer shell. We spin the salad manually, weeping for the past, when salad steeled itself against thunderous g-forces, like in those machines in the training portion of astronaut movies that spin hero-types at hundreds of miles per hour, their cheeks rippling stirringly to an inspirational soundtrack. Not that salad has cheeks, you understand, except for rarer varieties of radiccio.