I’m sorry, but at the risk of coming across like Quentin Tarantino in “Reservoir Dogs,” that’s just plain obscene. There are little children playing around here, for goodness sake. Couldn’t we at least put a sock on it? Maybe if we taught it to play bass it could be in a Los Angeles based punk rock band. Just a thought. All I know is that I had nowhere near the degree of admiration for the Romantic Poets in general, and Andrew Marvell in particular, than I do now that I have seen vegetables grow. To be honest, I’m feeling a little insecure about myself.
And my veggies are all organic. (That’s right, the ladybugs dig my vines.) You should see some of the things that come into work that have obviously been juiced. Of course, most people are timid about grasping a straightneck that’s the same size as your arm. It’s not even the length so much as the girth. How do you fit the doggone thing in the pot? I’ve just never understood that, but I’ll be the first to admit a lack of experience in the area.
Perhaps I had just been naive before. We do know where babies come from, after all: the cabbage patch. I saw some cabbage in a patch the other day. Still thinking about those lovely mounds, surrounded by gently spreading leaves. Whether in sweet cole slaw or tart sourkraut, you pretty much can’t go wrong with cabbage on your tongue. Vous le vous manger avec moi?