The Turnip Point
Nothing makes me happier than making beef stew on an autumn day. Well, except having someone else make it, of course. Or ordering a pizza to be delivered. Or heating up leftovers. But other than that, really, beef stew is it. So a few Saturdays ago when I woke up and announced that it was going to be a beef stew day to my husband, I was not prepared for his response.
"Make sure to put turnips in," he said. And then went back to sleep.
Now, I don't know what it says about a man who can practically sleep through an earth shattering announcement of beef stew preparation. And I'm afraid to know what it says about a woman who was unprepared for the turnip request, since my husband's turniphilia is well known. He practically worked in the devotion to turnips into our vows. "I, Husbandrinka, promise to love and honor you above all others, with the exception of turnips, so long as we both shall live. With turnips."
The problem is that I don't love turnips. And more than not love them, I despise them with an intensity that most people reserve for tyrants and despots and Paris Hilton. The taste gags me and their similarity to my favorite potatoes enrages me. How many times have I bitten with anticipation into what I suspected was a beloved potato only to discover that it was a turnip? Well, maybe only once, but it wasn't pretty.
Every time I make beef stew, we have the turnip vs. potato debate. It never ends well.
"I can't take it anymore!" I sobbed on the phone to my friend John. Yes, of the clitoris fame. Suddenly, he became a marriage counselor. "Just put in both potatoes and turnips, but cut them in different shapes," he suggested.
Great. Now I had to cook and become a geometry expert.
"What different shapes? Like crucifix turnips for him and Star of David potatoes for me?" I blew my nose.
"I was thinking more circles and squares, but that could work too," John said. "Weren't your ancestors turnip pickers in the Old Country? You should be more respectful of your heritage."
So, I was going to do it. I was going to make stupid circles of disgusting turnips and beautiful squares of scrumptious potatoes, but then it seemed like too much work, so I chopped everything and threw it in.
And had a slice of leftover pizza for dinner.