Politically Incorrect

In spite of recycling, installing light bulbs that curl and using both sides of the paper when I write, there are ways in which I fail in political correctness.

Take kale, for example. We are supposed to be wolfing down kale. You’d have to run a tank over those curly, dark-green leaves to tenderize kale enough to make me want to eat it. You can cook that stuff all day and it still tastes like the bottom of a compost heap. I don’t care if kale would add years to my life, I walk right by it and grab at the baby leaf spinach, which is equally green and can be relied upon to wilt nicely in soups or on top of fish.

Then there is the fancy Vitamix juicer. You throw in raw vegetables and pulverize them. This “delicious, nutritious” drink which, although I am sure is packed with vitamins, ends up being a peculiar shade of puce, is thick and looks disgusting.

My idea of tasty carrots is not those stiff, raw sticks, often a bit dry, but instead, carrots coated with olive oil and roasted at 420 degrees until caramelized. Cold raw celery is even worse. Those long, pale green strings that catch in your teeth. Yuck.

Don’t get me wrong. I buy organic vegetables and I eat lots of them, but there are limits to my pursuit of perfect health.

I have not taken up almond milk either. I have nothing against almonds. In fact, they are my go-to snack. But almond milk? Maybe mixed and warmed with cocoa? But then we are getting into substantial calories. I’ll stick with no-fat cow’s milk. It suits me fine.

It’s possible that I should get over this but it doesn’t seem likely. You get to a certain age—and I am that—when the constant prod of self- improvement becomes a drag and self-acceptance is a joy. I expect I’ll continue to rely on the vegetables I grew up with, happily roasting and steaming them.