(Host) Even the best things in life can lose their allure after a time,
as Martha Molnar, a public relations professional and freelance writer,
discovered this summer.
(Molnar) This has been my vegetable
summer, the summer I achieved a long cherished fantasy: to grow enough
food to be virtually self sufficient, at least for a couple of months.
Persistent
work and endless sunshine yielded a crop more suited to a clan of
carrot crunchers than to two people on a mostly vegetarian diet with
occasional meat thrown in. Spring’s leafy greens and asparagus were
followed by daily basketfuls of tomatoes, squash, peppers, beans and
eggplants, and more greens. The kitchen gleamed with reds and greens and
purples, and the aromas of herbs permeated the house. We consumed this
cornucopia raw and cooked, as liquids and solids, whole and chopped,
steamed, grilled and fried, marinated and pickled. I prepared bursting
goodie bags for neighbors and friends. Recipes that called for pounds of
summer vegetables became cherished heirlooms overnight. And a new
freezer was purchased to house the overflow.
There was beauty in
harvesting tomatoes shiny with morning dew and eating them on the spot.
There was joy in cooking and hoarding for the lean times. There was
pleasure in eating delicious, healthy food day after day, and in feeling
oh so virtuous. I was, after all, reducing our footprint on the earth.
At
least until mid August. Then, even as the satisfaction of getting that
zucchini before it grew into a murder weapon, or in snapping off
streamers of stringbeans remained, the cooking and eating became – well –
old. Gazpacho was great, but it lacked something. Likewise peppers
stuffed with couscous and herbs. Even the stir-fry infused with ginger
and basil felt bland.
And it so happened, that just about that
time we left for an important wedding. At the rehearsal dinner, I
tentatively tasted a little of my husband’s chicken. It was only a
simple roasted variety, but it was the best bird that ever touched my
tongue. I asked for a serving, which I consumed at a less than elegant
pace after rudely pushing my vegetarian entre to the side.
The
next morning, I considered for a long time the bacon listed on the menu,
then passed. But at the wedding, I changed my mind, I said to the
waiter. I didn’t want the eggplant napoleon I had chosen, in writing,
weeks before. Nor the faro with grilled, locally-sourced vegetables. I
left even the very green salad untouched. I wanted the beef, the one
smoked on site, whose aroma had enticed me away from the waiters
offering platters of appetizers, away from the guests left in
mid-sentence. I wanted the beef that had driven the very memory of
healthy, organic vegetables out of my mind, far, far away – all the way
to next summer.