In the story of Rapunzel, a child is traded for a bowlful of greens. Rapunzel’s mother, hormonal and hungry, looked over her neighbor’s wall, and the garden she saw there inspired in her a craving so fierce she promised her unborn child to the witch, in exchange for a few mouthfuls of tender leaves.
The child inherited the name of the plant that was her disinheritance.
Now, I’ve taken enough college lit classes to know that we could dissect the heck outta this one–a woman commits the ultimate act of defiance for one of her sex, relinquishing motherhood to nourish herself, and so on–but let’s keep it simple, shall we?
Rapunzel–also called rampion–isn’t much cultivated anymore. I’ve certainly never seen any. But I’ve known the story for a long time, and I can relate to a woman who lusts after fresh produce. So maybe it’s understandable that I always confuse rampion for another plant, similarly named.
Rapini, emerald-green, tasting of chlorophyll and minerals. It’s been on my mind lately, though absent from the co-op’s shelves. Some gals might fantasize about dark chocolate or pine for mac & cheese. Me, I tend to get a little cranky if I can’t get my greens… and the rapini was driving me to distraction. Kale and chard and escarole are just dandy, but it was the one I couldn’t get that I wanted.
But on a dreary, cold, hailing day last week, a batch finally made its appearance in the produce section. We ate it wilted over a whole trout, with a crumble of bacon and a dish of jewel-toned roast vegetables. It tasted like sunlight distilled, like an entire field–leaves, dirt, and all.
On a plate in winter, the echo of summer grass.
Good enough to trade offspring for? Having none, I can’t say for sure. But I’d definitely do business with witches to keep some on my plate. Even better, I plan to be the crone next door with the overflowing cold frames. Funny, they never have a blank for that on those occupational aptitude tests…
