I had a pile of them in front of me this morning, from the rather fresh to the marginally edible. I sorted them into groups. One group was for the dumpster. This included a few moldy tomatoes and eggplants. Then there was another group which looked healthy and fine. Those were the obvious keepers. But between them was the third group--the wrinkled old ones. These ones had velvety skins. They looked like they had been through rough days, and had stories to tell. In fact, I know that some of them did.
That red bell pepper had gotten sliced back in his prime, when he was a young chap full of ego and crunch. I had enjoyed his fragrance and his crispness then. Next to him was the twisted orange pepper, a bad little man who carried just the whiff of heat to keep it interesting, but who most of all was surprisingly tangy and sweet. He had completed one of my salads. And the onion, oh so neglected. “You eat my friends all the time,” he seemed to whine, “but little old me, you just stuck me in the back of the fridge and forgot about me, didn’t ya.” He had shriveled away from his old purple luster, down and down into a tight and curled knot. I could see the disregard on him, layers which had softened or peeled away and were useless. He didn’t look appetizing.
I stalled. I picked the veggies up and got ready to trash them, but, not being able to bring myself to it, I put them back down again. The silly thing was, I had all of the same vegetables in my “fresh” group. I didn’t need these. On the counter nearby there were two red bell peppers, the color of wine and nearly exploding out of their smooth folds with young pride. Right next to them sat a spotless orange pepper, the same variety as that old grizzled hothead who had livened up my salad. And on my spice shelf were a few onions, lording about like they owned the place.
But now I had these chaps who were wrinkled but edible, which had shriveled up but not rotted, and who seem to stare at me with their vegetable eyes and say “what about us?” I watched them and they watched me. They never blinked. Finally, giving in, I started slicing them. Today I would make my eggs using only the elderly ones, and we’d have to just see.
So I’m taking my breakfast now on the balcony of my building, up the stairwell, with my feet propped up on the railing and a cup of coffee. The vegetables are good. They seem to have mellowed out but gained a wider spectrum flavors with their age, making it worth chewing more at each bite. I’m glad that I chose them. It’s a chilly day and it’s Shabbat so the neighborhood’s pulse is pretty tame now, with just some tourists and a few locals walking dogs or strolling, and some crazy fat lady going up and down the street singing nonsense. I am struck by the fact that just over two weeks ago, I was in the same stairwell as this balcony, hiding from rockets, and now I’m mostly concerned about the fate of my elderly vegetables.
I think back and yes, maybe one of these veggies was even around then. Well, I’m not sure. The conflict with Hamas feels like it never happened, almost, just as these veggies, so precious when I first sliced them, sat forgotten in a cold place while my life swished away elsewhere. It’s strange just how quickly and fully we can forget things. I just celebrated a birthday, so I guess I’m thinking a bit more about it right now. I hope that I’ll age well, like these veggies. Well, look at me… now I’m getting all sentimental. Seeing anything that has been left forgotten strikes a chord with me. To curl up alone in the refrigerator is a sad fate for a bell pepper.
Breakfast is done. I’ve finished all of my old guys, and it’s only the young guns left over in my apartment now. Will I eat them fresh? Will they end up neglected, too? Who’s to say? One day at a time, little fellas. I’m off to life, to hopefully scooping up a few more flavors myself on the big journey. I have a lot more to do out there. Gotta get it all while it's hot, while there's still sizzle in the pan. After all, one day I, too, will be an elderly vegetable.
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