Category: Uncategorized

If you would, read this — from one year ago.

SEPTEMBER, THEY SAY, is for the better. In this month belonging to the trees I decided quite emphatically, to set my mind on the right path, of the right fork in the road of this night way. The tall grasses and mud that I’ve been walking through for months have been shed and dried and with the remnants still flaking from my shoes, I begin to look ahead and see something.

It isn’t magnificent, and it isn’t hostile, and it isn’t so overly abundant or unsatisfying. It’s not green, or pink, or patterned, or old. It isn’t familiar.

It is new. Each day I travel, each morning beginning with one lift of one foot, set forward. Then on again, in front of the other and the other, until this something becomes my calm and everything, and I can look down to clean feet and concrete.

And September — the tree’s September, the leaves’ September — can, too, be mine.

HAVING PERUSED THE AISLES of the F M Intl Food Market in the distant past, I can recall the glut of confusion and shock that assaulted my senses. Not to say that I didn’t love it — oh, I did — I just told myself I’d save it for another day, one day too long. And so the day before the assignment was due, I begrudgingly stood before some awkward, questionable vegetables being spritzed in the Hornbacher’s produce section. A gander at the bundles of green onions, radishes, and other consumables that seemed too “safe” led me further down the line, to a giant bulb that, in terms of vegetable attractiveness, was downright ugly. I don’t often eat ugly foods, so this creature/plant/root looked dangerous — and $1.79 later, I brought it home.

The overly excited sticker slapped on the skin called it “Jicama,” or a Mexican potato. I called it my midnight snack, and set it on the counter next to the cookies. The instructions told me to peel, slice it into strips, and eat it with dip, or throw it atop a salad. I wondered if the sticker had somehow left out the whole “cook, then…” part, as the potato seemed like any ordinary, “American” potato (not to be confused with Djiboutian, Malaysian, Greenlandish or Antarctican potatoes) only a little less oblong, a little more morbidly obese. I did as the instructions instructed me, and then searched the fridge for something to drown out the taste with. Jelly? Barbeque sauce? Space Aliens Cajun Ranch sauce? Perfect.

I summoned the usual victim, my sister, to partake in the Jicama experience with me. She, too, at first look of the lifeless, colorless sliced strips questioned whether or not I should throw them in a pot of boiling water. Then throwing all doubtful notions into the trash, we dipped. And you know…it wasn’t that bad! Of course, the food’s appeal was directly correlated with how much Cajun ranch we slathered on it, but we did try it plain as well; I’d best describe the flavor as the bland, watery taste of celery and the consistency of an apple married with a potato. However that works.

“Not so bad!” I said to my sister as we chomped on the tuber.

“Eh, yeah,” she agreed, “but the dip is better.”

I bagged the rest of it up, perhaps to toss in my backpack for an afternoon snack (one that you wouldn’t want to be caught eating). Maybe next time I will dip it in peanut butter and Nutella, toss some in my cereal, or just…throw it out when it’s green next week.

HERE’S THE DEAL: