Turnips

Remember two things:

1. I love my husband.
2. It started with turnips.

I’ve been voraciously attempting recipes from Cook’s Illustrated of late. In our home I am allowed the liberty of cooking anything I want as long as Greg and RE can say what they really think about the taste. The way it usually works is they declare, “Keep this recipe” or “Chuck this recipe.” I found a recipe entitled “Farmhouse Vegetable Stew” that called for leeks, turnips, Yukon golds, celery, peas, porcini mushrooms and barley. Just the list of humble ingredients made me happy. I imagined I was part of the French jam-making grandfather/granddaughter duo in the movie “War Horse” and that I had just left our stone cottage to forage in the garden for shoots of life and tubers of good fortune. It was a feast that took four hours to make since I threw in bonus gifts of artisan bread and homemade lemon-thyme butter. Every bite sent my taste buds reeling and I was frolicking through the French countryside in my mind. Before I finished my bowl Greg and RE proclaimed that the recipe needed to be chucked. Excuse me? Were we sopping the same broth of heaven?

I let it slide, refrigerated the leftovers and ate Farmhouse Veggie Stew for the next five lunches as to not waste a drop. The flavors enhanced each other as the days passed. It was blowing my mind how good turnips could taste. I lunch at home alone in a perfectly quiet house, but on the fifth and last day of leftover soup I found myself seeking out a pale chunk of turnip with my spoon, lifting it to eye level, and saying aloud, “Turnip, it’s just you and me. We’re all we’ve got.”

Before I continue the unraveling of my naïve marital bliss I should clarify that I love balsamic vinegar. Beyond love, really. I aspire to one day purchase a $99 bottle of Aceto Balsamico di Modena (aged for 12 years) from Dean & Deluca to see how good it can really be. It would give me great happiness to own a bottle of vinegar that has its own floating insurance policy. When Marlena de Blasi sold her home in St. Louis, Missouri to move to Venice she took her bottle of aged balsamic vinegar, a red lipstick and some tall Gucci boots. I understand her. I could even live without the boots.

Back to the drama. A week after the Peasant Soup Revolt I was standing in a very long Saturday night grocery line. (Long enough to read the entire Food Network magazine without being disturbed.) Buried in a story about Anne Burrell’s bowling party was a recipe for "Alley Fries." Homemade French fries with gouda cheese, red pepper flakes and balsamic vinegar all over them. When my retinas scanned the word “balsamic” I turned into Pavlov’s dog and COULDN’T CONTROL THE SALIVA. As I unpacked the groceries I told Greg about the evening's snack option and he said, “I don’t think you realize that I don’t like balsamic vinegar the way you do.” Just stab me in the heart next time.

We’ve had numerous conversations since then. Apparently my husband, Jimmy Dean, and my daughter, Little Debbie, abhor almost everything I love. They think feta stinks up the house. They think my homemade wheat bread is too dense. They don’t enjoy the tang of balsamic vinegar slowly reduced to syrup whether drizzled over filet mignon or strawberries. Meatless fajitas are not complete. My idea for hummus smeared on pizza crust topped with roasted red peppers? Shot down in a blaze of glory. (Peppers give Greg heartburn.) Roasted beets? No, thank you. Costco’s jalapeno Greek yogurt dip? Ate the tub on my own, which was no small feat. My green smoothies? Greg can’t force himself to drink them and RE says they taste like dirt water. There are times when a suspicious Greg will ask with a hint of alarm in his tone, “Did you add flaxseed to this?” And if you want to see the color drain from his face just say the word “quinoa.”

This is a two-way street. I do not condone the eating of runny egg yolks, shrimp, roasted Twinkies, chili, Arby's Beef-and-Cheddar sandwiches or any candy that oozes out in goo form. I know. I'm a wet blanket.

Oh, the sojourn of marriage. Two souls united…unless we start eating.

Comments

[Michelle]

Hilarious! At least you and I see eye to eye on good foods that are truly delicious!

[Hilary]

You can be my wife, cause seriously I love all that food. And tell Greg he better watch himself in church because I use "quinoa" in normal conversation all the time.