MY LOUSY WORLD: The jury’s still out on vegetables

Posted 5/26/16

I think I’m somewhere in the middle; I’m far from a genius but it’d be a stretch to label me a moron. Yet, a mental gaffe I stumbled into while shingling the Nichols’ roof at their “Country Gardens” near Ralston could lend that …

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MY LOUSY WORLD: The jury’s still out on vegetables

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Some people assume because I have a certain flair for writing and a sometimes-bizarre, unconventional translation of everyday events, I must be highly intelligent. Many others are convinced I’m “special” in an entirely different kind of way, since I possess the inherited Blough forgetful gene and mechanical skills of a penguin. I’m sure Norm and Vickie Nichols fall securely into that latter category.

I think I’m somewhere in the middle; I’m far from a genius but it’d be a stretch to label me a moron. Yet, a mental gaffe I stumbled into while shingling the Nichols’ roof at their “Country Gardens” near Ralston could lend that impression. I was helping my brother Jess for a day and during a break, he bragged up Nichols’ cantaloupes. I reminded him it’s honeydew melons I’m crazy about.

He said they also sell honeydews, “and tomatoes and corn and …”  He had me at “tomatoes,” and I referenced buying some of each to take home that day. I don’t recall Jess offering any clarifications — mainly just agreeably nodding his head.

I later told Norm I looked forward to buying some of his wares. He gave me the history of their produce heaven, how the garden was Vickie’s creation while Norm was still educating Powell’s future leaders. Jess had departed by then and I went back to work, making a mental note not to typically forget my take-home goodies.

Just before five o’clock as I’m cleaning up around the dumpster, the Nichols slowly drove in the driveway, and I reminded Norm I planned on purchasing some melons and veggies. With a grin, he answered, “Sure, but you’ll have to be patient.” I tried to ease his mind with, “Oh, I won’t be leaving for at least another 45 minutes.”

With a big grin, he then said what I suppose should have been obvious: “Right now they’re about this size, (holding his fingers an inch apart), so you’ve got several more months to be patient.” I should have said, “Of course I realize that. What did you guys think of my little joke,” but I didn’t. Instead I retorted with the cerebral, “Oh … yeah, I’ll buy some then.”

Again, moron is a strong word, and I hope you’ll resist the temptation to compare me to a “vegetable.” I’m not stupid; I just don’t compute data in a logical manner. Besides, grocery stores offer produce all year ’round, so it’s not totally outrageous to absent-mindedly make an errant assumption.

While on the subject, let me say this about vegetables: I’ve never been a big fan. I have nothing good to say about cauliflower, broccoli makes me literally sick, and Brussels sprouts should be arrested! Furthermore, with apologies to Roger Slack, my summer employer 45 years ago, it beats me why anyone would eat beets. God never intended for food to be brightly-colored, slimy and jiggly.

BUT, corn, peas, tomatoes, green beans and even spinach are another story altogether. How I regret not taking advantage of my father’s incredible garden when I was a kid, recoiling in the face of so many vegetables I now love. In my defense, making us endlessly shell peas, snap string beans and husk corn would make any spirited child resent vegetables.

I never stopped to acknowledge what a maestro Dad was atop his beloved rototiller. I remember photos of him picking tomatoes from a step ladder, the stalks were so high. I once wrestled one of my visiting buddies, Bobby Shroyer, for one of Dad’s strawberries the size of a baseball. The vision of a juicy tomato sandwich inside slices of Mom’s legendary homemade bread renders me mournful. Remembering creamed spinach on top of Dad’s homegrown mashed potatoes turns me into Pavlov’s dog. What in the name of all that is fresh was I thinking?

I bet my brothers would agree our father, Alfred P. Blough, was probably the most gifted gardener in all of Pennsylvania. And my recent gaffe is totally understandable in context, since if my memory serves me correctly, Dad DID harvest corn and tomatoes in April. But then again, it’s a much higher humidity back there. 

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