Stop Blogging and Cook

OTHER RELATED POSTS:  THIS ECLECTIC LIFE, ONLY THE GOOD FRIDAY

The greatest delight the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an
occult relation between man and the vegetable.  ‘I am not alone and unacknowledged.’
They nod to me and I to them.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

FORGOTTEN . . .
I awoke Thursday morning to a hot apartment, indicative of the inability to regulate the heat save opening windows to expel the hot air that had filled up my living space, clearly the most objectionable thing about wintertime apartment living.  Worse, my first foray into the kitchen revealed that the celery stalks, washed and left to drain the night before, were still there, forgotten in the evening’s activity that had me glued to my computer until bedtime.  Clean, dry and going limp.  Going, ha!  They had already progressed far into the limp stage, drooping like defeated warriors returned home in disgrace.

I had long experienced first-hand that reviving a bunch of wilted parsley or a head of lettuce was no big deal.  Simply rinse with cool tap water, drain and place in a sealed container in the refrigerator and, voila! the leaves  absorb the moisture with ease and barely any loss.  I had done this just the other day, in fact.  But this was an entire head of celery, and those long, thick, robust stalks needed much more moisture than delicate cilantro or Boston leaves.

I opened the long, green Tupperware container that I could not live without — well, I could live without it, but I couldn’t eat with out it — used for storing those vegetables that need absolute humidity control (like celery, green onion, broccoli and bell pepper) and rinsed it with cold tap water.   With rebuke and sadness, I nestled together the exhausted, limp stalks, wondering whether or not I was being a hopeless optimist.  Before closing it up, I ran the inside of the lid under the tap to provide an extra smidgen of moisture that will — I do believe in miracles! — revive my weary kitchen foot soldiers.  Sealing the lid, saying a prayer, and sliding the container into it’s slot in the refrigerator, the only thing left to do was wait.

Will this be their coffin or the cave of Lazarus?  Will they be relegated to the stock pot (because this cook’s minor set-back does not induce  flagrant waste, only resourcefulness and faith) or will I actually be able to eat the celery stuffed with peanut butter or diced into a chicken salad?  We’ll see.

. . . BUT NOT LOST
Today, I opened the container and was greeted with what I imagined to be faces of joy (if, indeed, celery stalks could have faces, peeking out from under perky leaves like full, blown-dry bangs)  I had not dared let myself  imagine.  They looked like they hadn’t been through even an hour of forgotten humidity.  What had seemed like the food equivalent of retired old men drawing their last gasp of breath were now proud stalks of strength, ready for any cooking, or eating, challenge.

See?  Even seasoned cooks run into lemons of life, forgetfulness being one of the more frequent.  But with a little confidence and faith, we learn how to serve up daily lemonade, even from limp vegetables.