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| Two 'c's in broccoli, thank you |
Like a groggy
late-sleeper rolling out of bed straight into guilty zumba; like a
truant worker sneaking in then clacking loudly on the keyboard to
convince the office he was here all along; like a purple-sprouting
flash mob that forgot to coordinate watches; it's broccoli time.
Apparently. Late January is now broccoli time. Or so my weirdo garden
would have you believe.
But why not
broccoli? Who am I to question this midwinter chorus of cruciferous
glee? Broccoli gotta be broccoli, y'know? Never mind that I've
planted this same variety three times at all different times of year
and never once gotten anything but sullen, barren stalks. Broccoli
is, I guess, like a teenager—capricious, stubborn, lazy, but
capable of amazing things if they would only look up from their
stupid phone and put their mind to it. Also
susceptible to aphids in warm weather. Is that a teenager thing? God,
I hope my daughter never grows up.
We still haven't
tasted it, but at this point the flavor is almost beside the point.
It's fresh broccoli in January, which is like … I don't know, a foot massage at
the dentist's. Only, you know, not creepy.
(*Bonus question
for this post— the word “broccoli” appears in this entry almost
ten times: can anyone guess how many times I correctly spelled
“broccoli” on the first attempt while typing?)
