I'm a 70s kid. Celery was on every hors d'oeuvres table at every boozy party, on every Super Bowl spread, in every snack bag. I have a fondness for its crude snap, its genuine humbleness. At Prune, in New York City, Gabrielle Hamilton has served celery salad for years. There's not much to it, and I've sort of made up my version, which I hope does justice to hers. And she pairs the crunchy, rough-around-the-edges salad with a toast topped with a large slab of Cambozola. What could make for a better lunch, really?

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