As a child, my parents always had a sizable garden. Over-sized, according to my mother. But it was always there, an ever-present needing-to-be-weeded fixture in our lives. My mom would often can the vegetables, much to my chagrin. But most of the garden, I just remember just eating in its raw, still sun-warmed, delicious glory.
One of my favorites was the kohlrabi. A weird little vegetable that I've never liked cooked, but found fantastic to eat raw. Which made one of the most special things to get called out to the garden by my dad, who always had a dirty knife in his pocket, with a kohlrabi in his hands, where he was slicing off pieces that we ate up as fast as we could.
Fast forward to this year when I decided I wanted my very own kohlrabi in the garden. I planted a few of them, and ever since, they've been growing beautifully. I was so excited that the first one was finally ready to eat yesterday. So I went out to the garden, peeled off the stems, and started to slice into it. It was delicious, and those happy garden eating memories flooded back to me. Then I handed a slice to C-man, as I waited expectantly over him with a smile on my face. He looked up at me, wrinkled his nose, and said, "Gross. It tastes like broccoli."
Apparently we need to make different memories.
1 comment:
Daughter Margaret always grows some kohlrabi for some old friend of mine - and they always eat it raw. Margaret sometimes adds it to slaw, too.
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