Apparently, I Like Celery

The celery took up most of the cutting board. I had bought a whole bunch for the two stalks a pot of lentils required, a familiar imbalance between the scale at which groceries are sold and the scale at which I eat lunch. On Monday, the rest lay beside my laptop on the kitchen table, still in its loose bag. Every time I moved the mouse, the leaves trembled. It was an unusually leafy colleague.

I had been working on language for a client since breakfast. By half past one, I had developed strong opinions about a comma and very little interest in feeding myself. There were eggs in the refrigerator, half a lemon, and this substantial green obligation. I broke off a small inner stalk and ate it while standing at the counter. It was cold, salty in a way I had forgotten a vegetable could be, and threaded with a mild bitterness. I reached for another piece before remembering that I disliked celery.

This was an opinion I had held for years without asking it to do any further work. I disliked the strings, the wet crunch, the way it announced itself in a mouthful that had seemed to promise something else. As a teenager in Charleston, I would pick it out of salads when I could do so without attracting attention. There is no graceful way to excavate lunch with the tip of a fork, although I gave the matter serious study.

A little bitterness

At my father’s events, I learned to describe food in terms of the person receiving it. Something could be beautifully made and still be wrong for a particular guest. That distinction came easily when I was working. At home, my own preferences acquired the permanence of dietary restrictions. I could have told you exactly what I liked before I had tasted anything. Celery was useful in the background of soup, provided it understood the limits of its role.

I cut three stalks into short lengths and put them in a pan with olive oil. Their curved sides kept lifting away from the metal, so I turned them with a fork until a few edges browned. Then I added a splash of water and covered the pan. The lid gave a brief rattle. I went back to my document, changed the comma to a full stop, and returned to the stove. This was the most decisive work I had done all morning.

When I lifted the lid, the kitchen smelled green and faintly sweet. The pieces had softened but still offered some resistance to the fork. I let the water cook away, squeezed over lemon, and fried an egg in the space I cleared at one side. A few of the small celery leaves went on top. I carried the plate to the table and moved the laptop to the chair. It had occupied the better seat for long enough.

I reached for another piece before remembering that I disliked celery.

The first bite was mostly lemon and the browned edge. The second had more of the flavor I remembered objecting to. I liked that one too. The bitterness made the egg taste richer; the softened stalk still had enough texture to keep the plate interesting. Outside, a truck was reversing somewhere along the block. I dragged a piece through the yolk and tried to remember the last time I had eaten celery with the intention of actually tasting it.

I thought briefly of sending Priya a photograph, but the plate was a pale green heap under a broken egg, and an announcement about celery seemed likely to invite a proportionate response. Instead, I stayed with the rather private embarrassment of enjoying something I had dismissed. Nobody had argued me into it. There was no new restaurant, persuasive cook, or elaborate preparation to credit. I had been hungry, and it had been there.

I am used to noticing when my judgment proves useful. I remember the sentence a room needed, the detail that made a confusing project clear. I am less attentive to the small opinions that keep circulating long after their evidence has expired. This one had probably been accurate once. I could still remember the hard strings against my teeth. Monday’s lunch did not make that younger version of me foolish, though I found myself wanting to explain the distinction to an entirely empty kitchen.

There was no need to decide whether I now liked celery in every possible circumstance. I had enough on my plate, literally, without accepting a lifelong appointment to its defense. I ate the last piece with a little salt and went back to the client document. Later, putting the remaining stalks in the refrigerator, I noticed the smallest leaves gathered in the center, almost yellow. I pinched one off before closing the door. It tasted sharper than the cooked stalks. For a moment I stood there chewing, with the lemon still on the counter and its juice drying on my thumb.