Despite our freakishly warm November, winter’s slowly and steadily reaching across the weeks to strip away summer’s garments. Only the broccoli and kale remain defiantly green in our garden now.
That’s just as well; Sage scorns the sweeter vegetables that I’d thought would be appealing to a seven-year-old’s palate, carrots and sweet potatoes among them, but the boy loves his broccoli.
I’d like to think it’s because when Sage was a baby, I’d spent many mornings holding him in the garden. I’d pluck a head of broccoli, and he’d gum it happily, drooling out an unpalatable but presumably healthful green ooze.
Maybe some part of him recalls those times and associates the taste of broccoli with fresh air, sunlight, and a mother’s arms wrapped around him.
Or maybe he just likes broccoli.
Whatever the origin of his fondness, though, I won’t complain, especially given broccoli’s cheerful persistence in the face of withering frost.
Even if I didn’t like it, I’d have to love it for that.