Black Broccoli, Yellow Snow

One night this week for dinner, I had to look. I mean really look, even going so far as to separate the florets of broccoli I intended to eat and inspect the little buds. I had to be sure. See, I have a tendency to eat old food like blue cottage cheese, week-old tilapia, and soft nuts. It’s not a good idea to eat food that has gone bad. It seems absurd to have to declare that, especially for anyone over the age of seven, but there it is.

Part of the problem is that I have been under the impression that my stomach can handle just about anything thrown at it (into it), because I am in good shape. I also thought I would develop an immunity to toxins over time and, thus, become healthier. Think of those people munching on apricot pits. They may be slowly dying, but try to convince them otherwise. You’ll be relieved to know that no one comes to me for nutrition advice. They know better. This also has been a spiritual experience for me, confirming, yet again, that pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall (Proverbs 16:18).

Actually, this time I did not fall. The buds had turned black and, instead of scraping them off and eating what was left, I threw the whole kit and caboodle–crown, stalk, florets, leaves–into the garbage. I felt proud for doing so and almost called my daughters to brag about it but then decided not to let pride sneak in through the back door after I had barred it from the front.

I’m not sure why I eat old food. I suppose I’m lazy when it comes to preparing food and eating. I am not a cook but an arranger of what Mother Nature has prepared ready-to-eat such as berries, nuts, fruits, and an occasional cheeseburger from Five Guys. I threw that last one in, because, come on, you can’t live like a lowland gorilla forever. Trail mix is probably my downfall, along with French roast coffee and grain gin. None of those goes bad, although I have to keep an eye on my favorite fruit, grapefruit. Otherwise, I’ll end up with a mouthful of membrane and peel.

I do not disdain food preparation. In fact, I respect it the way sailors respect the sea, which is to say I don’t take it for granted or approach it defiantly as if I know the secret to bouillabaisse (I don’t). I respect food by not ingesting anything that I know for a fact is verboten like those mushrooms I saw sprouting in the yard yesterday afternoon or, from my childhood, yellow snow.

By the way, yellow snow has become a universal symbol of danger for children everywhere, from the poles to the equator, if not by direct experience, then certainly by reputation. We should all be seeing yellow snow right now as a warning sign about the possibility of war. Some knuckleheads (let’s just call them idiots) are even suggesting how to survive World War Three. That constitutes the height of stupidity, and I definitely will cover that in another post, assuming we’re not all obliterated.

I remember a high school teacher who specialized in Chinese history. He liked to remind us that one of the differences between Italians and Chinese was that Italians live to eat while the Chinese eat to live. He himself was half Chinese. I felt somewhat slighted by the remark but couldn’t really argue with it. After all, Italians spend a lot of time around food. I’m not like that, but then again I’m not from Italy. Even so, I inherited the Italian appreciation for simple, nourishing food. I should probably start a garden this spring with the usual suspects. Maybe that way I’ll eat fresh food, avoid black broccoli, and truly settle into the lifestyle of retirement.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m finding retirement harder than I thought. Black broccoli and yellow snow abound everywhere. And I even like broccoli (see Cruciferous Me). You’d think with all this time on my hands (sure), I’d devote a little more time to cooking. Actually, I did run across a recipe for broccoli pasta in parmesan sauce the other day. Let me finish my box of Cracklin Oat Bran and I’ll get right on it.

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