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Romancing the Wild Kohlrabi
| Article
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13975 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
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2 / 1988 |
1,407 Words |
| Author
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Kathryn N. Hardin
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According to recent surveys, arguments over sex and money are the chief cause of marital disharmony--people with low sex drives married to people with high sex drives, big spenders coupled with low-income producers.
There is no mention anywhere of the problem that has plagued our marriage for years, but the fact is I am an uninspired cook united in holy matrimony to a man who craves exotic fare. The most I expect from the meals I serve is that they prevent scurvy and beriberi. My husband, on the other hand, thinks dining should be a divine experience.
This unfortunate situation has led to some sporadic instances of marital discord over the years, not the least of which was the episode of the infamous kohlrabi--a vegetable of dubious distinction whose only claim to redeeming social value is the fact it is high on the negative calorie list.
Think about it. Do fast-food chains carry French-fried kohlrabi? Has kohlrabi ever been featured as the vegetable du jour? Do frozen-food sections feature "rabi tots?"
It all started in bed late one night while I was watching Johnny Carson and my husband was searching through his diet lists for a diet he could come to terms with.
"You never cook kohlrabi," he suddenly stated.
That was true. I never cooked kohlrabi. I didn't even know what it looked like.
A remark such as that can easily escalate a verbal skirmish into a full-scale war. If he had said, "You never want to go to an X-rated motel" or "You spent too much money on the living room curtains," we could have gone to a marriage counselor. But the likelihood of finding a counselor who knew what a kohlrabi was or--better yet, how to cook one--seemed remote.
Clearly, this was something we'd have to work out for ourselves. Perhaps with any luck at all, we'd develop a sexual malfunction over the dilemma and could seek professional help.
Since the state of our marital bliss seemed to hinge on the outcome of this, we joined forces in an effort to locate a kohlrabi--which turned out to be no mean feat in itself. Romancing the stone was a piece of cake compared with stalking the wild kohlrabi.
The woman at the Jiffy Mart had never heard of it. The manager of our neighborhood grocery store said his daddy had a kohlrabi patch years ago but he didn't stock it because no one had ever asked for any. The farmer's market on the outskirts of town said it wasn't kohlrabi season. When we finally located the elusive vegetable in a supermarket bin wedged between the bok choy and the ginger root, I knew our troubles were just beginning.
For a while we stared apprehensively at what looked like a pile of deadly Portuguese man-of-war with trailing tentacles. Then my husband held up one of the large turniplike creatures and we studied it cautiously. I sensed he might be getting cold
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