My husband and I went out to Chinese food with a friend of ours last night. I suggested a cabbage dish.
"Oh no," he said, "I can't eat cabbage. I have cabbage trauma."
My husband and I tenatively asked whether this could be shared, never
having heard of cabbage trauma, or, for that matter, any sort of
cruciferous angst.
"Yes," he replied gravely, "I can share. When I was little, my mother
used to tell me stories about a friendly cabbage who had vegetable
adventures. He had little cabbage shoes, and a little cabbage hat. He
was a happy cabbage."
D. was silent for a moment, savoring the memory.
"My mother was dating somebody at the time who was familiar with the
cabbage. One day they got in a huge fight, though I didn't know that.
What I did know was that night her boyfriend told me the evening
cabbage story."
He dropped his voice to a whisper. "That night, the story ended in coleslaw."
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2 comments:
Cool. I had never even heard of or seen the word "crucifer" before. :)
I think it's a lovely word, but I really like the idea of cruciferous angst.
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