I'm sure you've all been here before, but it's a new one for me.
At long last, having plucked that most elusive specimen—The Perfect Rutabaga—from the garden, after too many seasons of hand-wringing, worm-ridden failure, egged on by the halcyon aftertaste of sweet earthy flesh on the tongue years before and the coy promise of more to come, I am torn by indecision.
Do I eat it or save it?
Preservation concerns aside—I'm sure there are any number of readily available cryogenic/taxidermic/embalming options out there for the root enthusiast—I am faced with a narrow window in which to make the prudent decision. I mean, this rutabaga is beautiful, is it not? (A more manly man than myself might deny the tear in his eye when beholding its lumpy perfection, but not your humble narrator.)
|Like staring into the face of God.|
So do I add it to Fencebroke's trophy case, to hold court for posterity alongside other such priceless horticultural treasures as The Spiral-Carrot, The Two-Headed Raspberry, The Tom Waits Potato and The The One Squash That Didn't Get Powdery Mildew—or do I subject its purple splendor to the torment of slicing, cooking, mashing and all the other disgraces of being food, just so I can taste what my eyes know to be true, that this is indeed The Perfect Rutabaga?
Plenty of painful deliberation to come.
Also, does anyone know how do cook this thing?