The Event

Hello, my friends. Jesse here. Today brings you the unique opportunity to catch a glimpse of what it's like inside the brain of me, the husband. The guy. The dude, if you will. I apologize that there are no pictures to illuminate my story. I can only hope that my words are sufficient to paint a picture and portray my feelings.

Enjoy:

My wife, being of the stay-at-home variety recently, has been on a kick of planning and preparing a wide range of what I like to call “real meals.” These meals are differentiated from their less substantive brethren by things like multiple food groups, glass plates, and eating at the table instead of in front of Netflix the way it should be (I’ll leave ambiguity as to the antecedent to the phrase “the way it should be” to allow the reader to interpret whether it should be at a table or in front of Netflix. Close friends will know what I mean, strangers and acquaintances can infer as they like for the moment.). As a side effect of this, my wife's newfound love of housewifery, I’ve been subjected to a greater number of green things on my plate than I have previously found comfortable. Some of them, to my surprised relief, have been quite good. Others have pressed me through an experience that could only be described as herbivoric.

Those of you with whom I am familiar will know that I’m no great lover of salads, but certain combinations of specific varieties of leafy things drenched in the viscous opacity of the right kind of topping have proven themselves at least palatable if not totally desirable. Recently, however, I had one of those herbivoric experiences which, in addition to being utterly repulsive in itself, may have been to the permanent detriment of this movement I’ve been making toward a more “balanced” diet. Danielle had prepared a perfectly lovely “real” meal on glass plates, sitting at the table, featuring a variety of foods which under other circumstances would have been mentioned here, but have been forgotten entirely in the wake of my salad-related trauma. We sit down, eager to dig into this latest culinary creation born of my wife’s recent abundance of free time. We say a quick prayer, and begin simultaneously the meal and the accompanying recounting of our day. “How was your day today? Did you have a good day today or a bad day today? Well what kind of day was it?” (With apologies to the creators of Seinfeld for an assuredly imperfect quotation) After a few minutes of happy noshing and a couple of stories exchanged my fork brings to my mouth the scourge, the bane, the ruin of my day: A single, undrenched leaf of baby spinach.

I have no aversion to baby spinach per se. Danielle and others will tell you that, should salad be unavoidable, baby spinach is actually my preferred delivery system for whatever dressing I’ll be eating at that meal. But one leaf of baby spinach on its own changed things. I was suddenly aware that in my mouth was not a bite of salad, but a leaf. A piece of a plant had found its way from nature to my tongue unimpeded and unflavored. Helped, even, by my own treacherous fork. The bitter grit and pungent fibers of that one terrible leaf began working their dark sorcery from the moment it passed my lips. My mouth, nay, my whole being rejected it immediately, but for the love of propriety and in consideration of my dear wife I continued to chew. My incisors, canines, and molars all worked in unison to destroy forever this vile intruder. With a final gulp I put the beast to rest, but the damage was done. The memory would live on, seared into my subconscious, forever emblazoned on the most prominent part of my brain. A complex in its nascent form, waiting to mature and grow into… what? A fear? A psychosis? An idée fixe?

Alas, dear reader, we may never know the full extent of the damage done. We can only guess what the ramifications will be. But be warned. If you take nothing from my ramblings this day, remember this guiding principle: Salad is not food. Salad is what food eats.