Monday, August 18, 2008
"Things do not change; we change."
-Henry David Thoreau
Mater frequently makes enquiries about my particular food habits- but then refuses to believe anything I tell her about vegetables.
If it happens that she questions me when I am in the midst of cooking broccoli, cabbage or anything remotely considered 'greens,' Mater assumes me to be merely teasing.
She has, I admit, rather good reason: I shied away from vegetables until I was in my twenties, not being able to abide the taste of that category of food. No doubt the faces I habitually made as a youngster- curling lip, watering eyes, jutting tongue- compelled the various boiled vegetables to retreat in mutual repulsion.
I have of late been consuming a significant amount of broccoli with a dash of soy sauce, and am finding it to be the better part of a meal. I have settled at last on a style of cooking vegetables which is my own and which I can savour.
"I'm really cooking broccoli," I say to that disbelieving ear, "and I'm about to have it for dinner. I can't wait."
"But what are you really having?" trills the inevitable voice of doubt. She simply cannot envision me sitting down to a plate of steaming vegetables and happily devouring the lot. Perhaps a photograph might sort matters promptly.
Truth be told, I myself would find photographic evidence to be useful: I am as startled as my mother at the relatively recent turn of events. There is nothing, I find now, quite like a lightly pan-fried piece of broccoli so soft that the touch of a fork causes it to disintegrate and there is nothing so fascinating as the thought "if my mother could see me now," to inspire one to attempt new culinary endeavors. There is no accounting for taste, or change, or change of taste.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 10:21 AM