house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

44 days, 14

Today we need to talk about Galician Cabbage. Big name, some drama, a little mystery, huge irony, hence a mention in the 'column' here. Let us go back to the beginning and get all the facts:

These cabbages sprouted in the top garden almost by accident – i.e. granny didn't know where to plant them, left some lying there in the veggie patch and next thing we knew, they were growing. (Freak plants! If gardening were this easy, we wouldn't ever need to go to the market. )

Freaks indeed! They look like a veg that wants (and fails) to be a tree. Before you know it, it's got this thick stem and branching leaves, huge and droopy. The leaves are the edible part, if you can be bothered to harvest them, wash the grubs and spider webs off, chop them finely and cook... IF – I never found myself volunteering for the job. Why? It's boring, bothersome and the taste leaves a lot to be desired...

So, at the first opportunity, I offered them to the neighbour, Lola. She was keen, said she'd transplant a few into her garden. I should have asked you first, I know, but I've never seen you show any great interest in them, water, weed, pick, cook or eat... In any case, nothing happened.

Then ALL the leaves disappeared and left behind some sad stumps still standing. I wondered briefly about that... (maybe Lola just wanted the leaves? Emergency soup? Snails? Cabbage-addicted aliens? Whatever...)

And today, today all was revealed. Lola came by with the sheep, we had a chat. I said 'why didn't you take the cabbages?'; she said 'Magnus wanted them.' What? What could you possibly have wanted them for? (in any case, she would only have taken the small ones, you were going to be left with the gentle giants!) And anyway, how were you going to enjoy their bland and boring flavour? Regular little 'cabbage parcels' flying to Pakistan?

'But what happened to the leaves?' I remembered to ask. And here, prepare yourself for the Big Blooming Irony of the Day.

'Teresa's rams ate them!' says Lola. 'I gave my brother a right wee row about it, they need to watch those rams better.' 'Look at me', she says with a sigh, 'I'm always running around after my sheep.'

As if to illustrate, her sheep – and the sweet little lamb – decide they'd had enough snacking and take themselves off at a trot, with Lola leaping behind them without goodbye.


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