de Vos: The evil of all roots
The Friday Report
Marriage is a melting pot that brings together different ideas and tastes. For instance, my wife likes vegetables while my preferences run strongly toward things that taste better. Squash is named after the first guy took a bite and said, “Yuck, take this outside and squash it!” Okay, my wife didn’t believe that either. Whatever. I’m not sure what rutabaga are and haven’t the slightest interest in finding out.
Green vegetables that stand up tall in the rain and bask in the open sun are okay assuming, of course, that they are modestly cloaked in cheese sauce. What I can’t stand are those sneaky quasi-vegetables that grow underground. They just sit down there, slowly turning revolting hues of beet and radish. Beets just taste weird but my wife claims to love them, probably just to rile me. She has dozens of recipes. They all make one serving.
No good has ever come of broccoli, a huge waste of table space that could be taken up with hot dogs and barbecued ribs. You’d have to be Amish to enjoy broccoli, yet implausibly, my wife bought some the other day. At dinner, I accidentally dropped my entire serving of broccoli on the floor when my wife wasn’t looking. I figured when she found them later I’d simply claim my constitutional right against self-incrimination. But to my surprise, the dogs wolfed it down, acting all nonchalant when my wife whirled around to make sure I hadn’t fed them any. The little one let out a satisfied belch. Both of them loved it. Eureka! At last I see a sensible plan for ridding the world of broccoli in our lifetime!
As a kid I had to rake the bottom of the chicken pen into a pile and use that pile to fertilize the garden, so I know what root vegetables are made of. A notable exception is a real potato. With satisfying amounts of butter, sour cream, chives and Baco-bits, they are marvelous. Not to be confused with sweet potatoes. Hello! They’re orange. Everyone knows orange signifies highway hazards. In the movies, angry African locals are always shooting up explorers with blow darts tipped with poison made out of orange frogs. It’s just a crummy food color. Nonetheless, I am tolerant enough to say that if GMO’s could make sweet potatoes taste like fish tacos, I could change my mind.
Okra? Okra is a vile suppository-shaped vegetable best served in a disposal. A kind and generous God would make Buffalo chicken wings grow on vines. But no, we get zucchini. Have you ever seen anyone stand in front of an open fridge, hands on hips, and exclaim, “Doggone it, can we really be out of zucchini bread?”
My wife served turnips the other day. I stared at them on the plate. She stood there. I looked up. With her eyes she was daring me to complain. I put on my most enigmatic smile and murmured a modest, “yum”. She nodded and turned back to the kitchen as I deftly slipped it off my plate to the wagging dogs below. I expected the same wolverine-style attack like the broccoli. Instead, they spewed chewed turnips all over the living room floor before high-tailing it out the dog door.
The dog door leads to a fenced-in yard and the dog house, a domicile I am thoroughly familiar with.
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