Roger Moroney doen't know if he can eat his grrens after he's nurtured them, and provided them with a home. Photo / File
Roger Moroney doen't know if he can eat his grrens after he's nurtured them, and provided them with a home. Photo / File
I like broccolli, steamed or slightly stir-fried and sometimes with a tasteful spread of fine cheese upon it, although I suspect I have just indicated that I find it difficult to spell.
Like so many words.
Is it two 'c's and one 'l' … or two 'l's and one 'c'? Or one of each or two of each?
I could look it up but as I noted in last week's missive the waters came arriving through the garage and soaked into many stored books and magazines.
The Dick and Mary (all right then, Dictionary) was probably one of them.
I wandered down to the local shops a short time ago and while there steered a path toward the local vege shop to see what they had on the sign above these fluffy green gems.
Why am I whimsically rambling on about a green veg which on looks alone, if it were a car, would never find a buyer?
Because we are growing some.
In the garden, and I make that point because I can spell 'garden'.
I cannot spell brokolli, although I daresay I will get there … by 2023.
So yes, I wandered off to a garden scenter, I mean centre, some pre-flood weeks ago and purchased 10 brokillee plants which I carefully brought home and equally carefully planted them in the garden.
I did this because as well as being able to spell 'garden' I knew they would be in good hands.
Although when she wrung them out on that wretched day I became concerned and wandered down there during the torrent, and through the rising waters, and lamented their state.
All I could do was wring myself out, wander back inside and assure myself "they'll be right".
And they pretty much were, for the brocker-lees have come through … well half of them have.
The water-beaten other half have composted away nicely.
I remember many years back when we decided to plant some brocco (I'm getting closer now) and someone made the point, and I guess a fair one, that "why grow them when they're dirt cheap at this time of the year?"
That, I pointed out pointedly, was not the point.
It was about gardening.
About getting out and digging and preparing a patch of soil and creating a home-grown, proudly home-grown, landscape of veg.
Of course such things are cheap off the grocery shop shelves but to get out there and produce one's own just feels kind of special.
Of our broccolli (almost) I did however fall into the pet-like state of embracing them … for I named them.
Yes I agree, it is rather infantile and yes, if this state of mind edges further toward excessive infantileness I will likely seek therapy … of that I can assure you … because I can spell 'assure'.
So I now have, living in the garden, Benny Broc, Bobby Broc, Billy Broc, Barbie Broc and Belinda Broc.
Which is all fine and dandy but I am unsettled by the approaching Christmas, for we will certainly cull the first of them for the dinner or salad.
I can see myself sitting there quietly saying "hello Benny" as he reclines on the plate before me.
I will slowly gather up a wedge of Benny, and a slice of Barbie too, and I am sure a tear will emerge.
Looking into their fresh little green faces … oh crikey, I need a drink.
For we will have grown and nurtured them, and provided them with a home.
They were happy.
They bloomed.
Until I went and dragged a couple out, trimmed and savaged them and put them on a plate.
But as I scribe this in late November Benny, Bobby, Billy, Barbie and Belinda are greenly glowing down the back, oblivious to their fate … which may not come.
I suspect it could be rice and cheese balls for Christmas dinner this year.
Postscript: And so, the correct spelling is 'broccoli'.
Didn't one called Cubby once make a few early James Bond films?
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist and observer of the slightly off-centre.
