Ode to Cauliflower

by Tom Swift

Oh, how I resist you so.

Even when I do bring you home, which, let’s face it, is not as often as I should, I let you linger so long.

There you sit — getting the cool shoulder, if not the cold one — receiving only my passing glances as I open the fridge and reach for other options, really very nearly all other options, before my attention turns, alas, and with a sigh, to you.

You are, I think to myself, too high maintenance. Here I have to bathe you, trim you, discard your distasteful parts, pick up the bits that inevitably spew about the counter, onto the floor, anywhere, everywhere. You crumble worse than a fist-full of chips. And, sadly, the dog has no interest.

Then I have to find multiple containers in which to store you because your original dwelling is, frankly, less durable than a cardboard box … and I just want to eat, OK?

But then something happens. You lure me in, you hardy and patient, if not wonton, lover. I grab the salt, and a dash of pepper, and I have one bite, and a second, and it really doesn’t long before I realize what you do for me.

A member of the cruciferous family of vegetables — I am especially fond of your cousin, cabbage — you are high in vitamin C, a good source of folate, and meanwhile free from both fat and cholesterol. You contain few calories yet, because you are mucho fibrous without being an insulin spiking carbohydrate, you fill me up fast.

You give me power.

You give me energy.

I do not think it a stretch to say I feel more confident with you in my life.

You, you light up my life. You give me strength to carry on …

OK. No more singing.

The point is you make me standup and salute.

So effective are you that I don’t know why every man (I am less well versed in the effects you may have on women) doesn’t immediately heed your call — I don’t know how you can remain so readily available. And cheap.

If I am smart — keep it down in back — I shall not allow much time to pass before our next encounter.