On washing vegetables.
I washed vegetables today. This evening. Immediately after arriving home. In the sink I usually cringe at, but that is newly scrubbed out of necessity by a frustrated mom.
My second half-share of vegetables from my first year participating in a CSA (community-supported agriculture). Aren’t they beautiful? This week’s batch was particularly useful to me as the gourds, tubers and stalks themselves are small, portable, less imposing than last week’s giant leafy cabbages, kale, and mystery-veggie. Plus, I discovered the Swap Bin.
(out goes lettuce, in goes non-bok bok choy (“bok” means white and these were all green).)
Or as my mom said upon glancing at them: “those are not bok choy! They don’t know what they’re growing.”
Washing vegetables. Usually I put it off until whim prods me to cook, until the cooking god decides to make an appearance in my life. Or until rot is about to set in.
A metaphor for how I increasingly and ashamedly treat options, acquisitions and decisions in my life.
But this time, the accessibility of the vegetables and the confidence I felt as a return patron, no longer green, spurred me on. This time the memory of the creamy spring asparagus, pea shoot and mystery-cheese risotto I savored yesterday at Eleven Madison Park, one of the Fanciest Restaurants In New York City.
Remember that dish? No? I do. And because there is no photo of it, the image lives only in my mind. How apropros.
I must have still been high on the idea of expensive free food.
That, and I made little strides in not putting off tasks at work today. I plowed through, determinedly. I channeled my stubbornness.
I washed vegetables today. I suppose Pandora finally shut the box.