Discovering a new passion up a once-foreign beanstalk
by Angie Vicars
Long, long ago in the 1970s, in a galaxy far, far away called the Tri-Cities, at a tiny grocery store by the name of Giant, I first saw the figure who towered over produce. And still does. He's as green as spinach without any dressing. As long and solid as a freshly washed cucumber. As covered with leaves as a new head of lettuce. He's known far and wide as the Jolly Green Giant: the lord of vegetables. Whether steamed, cooked, or fried, he dishes them out.
To everyone but me. Let me settle onto the couch and I'll explain the root of the problem. (Get it, root?) When I was a child, I ate as a child. Meaning, nothing good for me. Naturally colorful, vitamin-enriched, sugarless foods had no appeal. They were stringy, slimy, and chewy. Not to mention the way they smelled. So I'm not. Mentioning it.
But there was another reason. I couldn't explain it back then. Now that I'm thirty-something however, I can spill the beans. With the greatest of ease.
Call me Monica. Give me a beret. I'm here to expose the sordid fact that the Giant wants to keep hidden from the public eye. An awful truth that could spread in scandal rags until his good name is compost. Until everything he supposedly stands for is congealed like a set-in stain on the American public.
The Jolly Green Giant isn't jolly. He's lying to you, just like he lied to me. Though he runs campaigns featuring the word "jolly" as part of his name. Throws his hands on his hips and "ho, ho, hos" as loud as St. Nick. He isn't playing the field. He's tilling it.
In produce, where I used to see him on a regular basis, he wore nothing short of a lip-pursing, eyebrow-scrunching, jaw-squaring scowl. Pointed right at me. I knew what that meant then and I still do. Don't just eat your vegetables today. Eat them now. No excuses. Clean your plate. Do you want a good spanking?
He knows when I eat healthy. He knows when I do not. And he's got much more than a lump of coal in store for me. Without what he provides, my face will shrivel. Then the rest of me. I'll never be one with my bathroom, unless I drink powders that remain the consistency of sand despite constant stirring. And I'll only see 20/20 in my mind's eye before long.
It's not that being healthy feels bad. It's that I've never been willing to cower my way into a better lifestyle. Letting a big liar get the last "ho." So...I spent my formative years as the poster child for Oscar Mayer and Velveeta. Now look at me. Five feet of sculpted muscle wrapped around a killer immune system, topped off with (still) naturally non-gray hair. Processed meat and cheese foods, they did a body good.
That is, until about a year ago, when my taste was spoiled. Permanently. By a dish of a woman. A true blue plate special. My friend Sara, also known as Madam Vegetable. She's all of the things the Giant is not. Honest. Real. Nice. Reasonably sized. Female. Steamy. Dicey. A good dresser (more inclined to wear green linen than green leaves). Has real hair. The greater the pressure, the more she cooks. And when she throws her hands on her hips and laughs, the sound comes from her diaphragm.
I remember the first time she fed me dinner. We didn't discuss the menu. It was an impromptu thing. I sat down. She served. Broccoli to the left of me. Corn to the right. Cabbage in the far corner. Cauliflower on deck. Peppers on clean up. She didn't know about my Giant problems. Or my new dilemma. How could I explain I was opposed to every plateful of food before me? I sized her up. All she was saying, it seemed, was give vegetables a chance.
So I did. The corn I bit into was good so I crunched some cauliflower that was ever better and that led me to cabbage that couldn't get any better but I still wanted more as I speared the broccoli and oh my god it was so good that when I got to the peppers I just couldn't take it anymore, more, more...it was beyond my wildest dreams. Oh my God. It was all so good. So good. So very, very good. The Giant would never have done this for me.
But Madam Vegetable isn't satisfied yet. My habits displease her. My diet is lacking. Bologna makes her cringe. Along with canned ravioli. And Pop-Tarts. Even Pop-Tarts are what she calls a last resort. (They have eight vitamins and minerals, though. It says so on the box. Frosting added to that doesn't seem like a big deal. Does it? But I digress.)
This is what it boils down to. I've been cleansing my palette. Just to please her. That's how it started out, anyway. Now, I'm doing it because I like it. I want more. I can't get enough. Or make do with a frozen entrée on the side anymore.
I don't need professional help. I already have it. We're consenting adults, the Madam and I. So, I can admit this in public without fear of repercussions from my supposed peers. Without fear that one day I'll run across a dress I just happened to keep. She'll say, "Do I see some sort of stain on there?" I'll say, "It certainly isn't from a pepperoni log that I had for dinner one night. Only one night. A long time ago. I haven't hurt anyone. Much." We'll never have a scene like that. In front of everyone. What would be the point?
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