Dear Kohlrabi,

What are you? I’m told you’re some form of cabbage, but I’m not buying it. Cabbage is round. Cabbage exists within the confines of normal Euclidean space.

Cabbage doesn’t make me think about the eggs of a small yet vicious alien in a Philip K. Dick short story.

Let me provide you with some background, kohlrabi, in case you’re wondering why I’m suddenly giving you the 3rd Degree. See, about a month ago, the wife and I signed up for a half share in a CSA to supplement our own gardening efforts and to keep our diet as organic as possible. We were… less than prepared for the onslaught of leafy greens that quickly took over our refrigerator. Suddenly, where there had once been shelf space and 7 year old bottles of ketchup, there was now a veritable jungle of organic, edible leaves waiting to be rinsed, spun, and turned into a salad. Or wilted and served hot, with a little salt and some vinegar. Or added to the top of a burger. Or… Well, you get the idea.

So it came as a great shock to me one day when, at the bottom of our bag, there was not the expected (and by now obligatory) bunch of green onions but, rather, what I initially thought was a prank my wife had played on me. I seriously did. This is how the conversation went:

Eli: What the—

Eli’s Wife: *loud crashing noise from room she’s in followed by excessive cursing*

E: What was that?

EW: Yeah, don’t worry about it, I’m fine.

E: I gathered that from the barrage of sailor trash talk that just occurred. When you’re hurt or something is wrong you just scream.

EW: DON’T JUDGE ME!

E: Too late. Anyway, what happened?

EW: I may or may not have have just dropped a pair of shoes on the dog.

E: And that caused a bomb to go off?

EW: No, he flipped out and hit the coffee table. Possibly knocking over my full glass of wine.

E: Possibly?

EW: Did you need something, or are you just trying to get me to rage quit our marriage?

E: Did… did you just use a video game term in a conversation? Correctly?

EW: I think so.

E: O.o

EW: What do you want?

E: Yeah, hey, what the [REDACTED] is this stuff you put in our CSA bag?

EW: What are you talking about?

E: These weird egg looking things. With the spindly spindles.

EW: Spindly spindles? People actually read the things you write?

E: >_<

EW: I have no idea what that is. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m kind of afraid of it though.

E: RIGHT?! What if it’s an egg from some small yet vicious alien species like in a Philip K. Dick short story?!

EW: I remember when I was a little girl, I said to my mom, “Someday when I grow up I’m going to be smart and beautiful and marry the biggest dork I can find, just so I’ll always feel better about myself.”

E: You’re… welcome?

EW: *grabs paper towels, walks into other room*

E: *shouting after her* HEY! That wasn’t a compliment at all!

EW: Love you!

And so began the search to discover just what, exactly, you are. Kohlrabi, I’d like to congratulate you. You are so confusing that when I Googled “What’s this weird thing I just got in my CSA bag?” it only took me about 15 seconds to see you. Apparently you have baffled and frightened enough other people that entire websites are dedicated to explaining to the uninitiated just what it is you are and what people should do with you.

Let me say this, though: You don’t scare me anymore. I’m gonna cook you. Then I’m going to eat you. Afterwards, hopefully, your eggs won’t hatch in my belly and lead to a full scale takeover of the planet Earth.

Prepare yourself (so I don’t have to. See what I did there?), kohlrabi. I’m coming for you.

Love,

Elijah