Ok so it’s chard not cabbage but it is green, it’s healthy and full of vitamins and grows easily in our South London micro climate. But I don’t eat enough. Greens. Never really did. The Archaeologist, contrarian that he was, eschewed the traditional vegetables favoured by children in favour of Brussel sprouts which have universally turned small mouths into sealed capsules. Me, I looked on these gangrenous conkers with utter horror.
Cabbage, though, was the worst. The dark green seaweedle mush that was slapped on my school dinner plate with all the appeal of a dead otter awaiting dissection had to be the pits but even the crispy home grown version prepared by mum left a lot to be desired.
Still we grow up and understand expectations; turning up at work without being nagged out of bed, picking up wet towels and eating greens: these are the foundations of civilised society, up there with support for human rights and an appreciation of custard creams. I’m a reluctant convert but I am onside nowadays.
Despite this, when a friend suggested a new diet that involved just cabbage for a period I baulked. I’m really not sure about the consequences of this on the atmosphere in and around south London. I don’t want to be part of a climate change problem. I really can’t imagine anyone wanting to try this out. No, I don’t get such a strange love affair.
Which is a silly, if rather obvious segue to a poem I wrote about Pissaro and his love affair with the cabbage a while back. See what you think
PISSARO FOUND POETRY IN THE CABBAGE
If you listen to the fashionistas of the modern culinary arts,
When they describe perfect roasts or sumptuous lemon tarts,
You’ll hear their words of praise for all those fruits and meat
And how to meld their flavours, comingling savoury with sweet.
And even though they often play an important supporting role,
The humble vegetable is still more courtesan than prole.
The muscular potato or statuesque carrot
Are stables of the table, more often praised than not.
But down amongst the also rans, the forgotten men of food
Whose highest praise is usually ‘Eat up, they’ll do you good’
Besides that distorted vege-beast, the emblem of our drab age
Reviled at school, the pauper’s feast, there rests the simple cabbage.
Let us look beyond this unfairly labelled legume
And restore it to its rightful place where it once more may bloom
Like a cleaned, restored Old Master, a refurbished classic car
As good as oil of castor, the five star brassica.
Some may moan and cry for help
And groan out loud if offered kelp.
While others quail, and kick and shout
And turn quite pale, at the thought of sprouts.
And then there’s those, who duck and cower
And turn up their nose at the cauliflower.
And this same team will not risk the mockery
Of being seen enjoying broccoli.
But there are men, free men prepared to stand
And defend, till death, these fruits of our land.
Monet, Renoir, the bearded Pissarro
They didn’t paint the pea or the marrow.
No, for them, there was no finer joy
Than to fix, on canvas, the sweet green savoy.