Think of what its like to be an undistinguished,
left in the grocery bin,
Add to that a name
That, though it rolls off the tongue,
Rhymes with nothing else romantic,
With nothing else at all.
German cabbage, sure
But does it have a ring to it,
Add that its difficult to cook and eat,
And has the unfortunate appearance of a Revolutionary War grenade.
You have the lowly kohlrabi .
I remember eating them fresh, raw,
Picked out of a Polish backyard garden
Fighting blousy, pure,crisp sheets
While fending off a barrage of gloriously
Shaped, patinated, aged, wooden clothes pins.
Not much about a kohlrabi to commend it
Growing up with tradition
In foreign words,
In a purity of spirit
That needed no definitions.
I salute you,
Revel in your radish-like flavor
And hope by some miracle,
You gain your rightful
Place in this ultra-organic world.