Taciturnip

 

I went to the farmer’s market, excited at the prospect of better fruit, having lost the appeal of apples some time in February. But nothing had really changed. There were no berries yet, no stone fruits, nothing that caught my eye and those of others. It was still a garlicked setting. 

 

That’s when I found myself face to root vegetable with a filthy turnip. Like most normal people, I don’t know much about turnips. They’re not beets and they’re not radishes – two things I do know something about. But the turnip intrigued me. I picked it up – heavier than I expected – and checked out.

 

On the way home, I buckled it into the front seat, narrating the historic parts of Brooklyn we were passing, since the vegetable was seated well below the window line. Told the story of the five-borough consolidation in 1898, the etymology of stoop, and where Frederick Law Olmsted ranks in the pantheon of great New Yorkers. The turnip didn’t say a word. Didn’t even stare at me. Unlike potatoes, he didn’t have eyes to roll. 

 

I kept going. When we got home, I took him out and asked whether he’d prefer a bowl or a basket. Nothing. I can handle shy people, but this time of obstinacy was tough. I’m inviting you into my home, providing you shelter from the sweaty masses of Park Slope, and this is the all I get? 

 

Nothing. This went on for days. I’d check on the turnip, say good morning, ask if anyone had called for me or knocked on the front door. Relationships are built on reciprocity on trust. With the turnip, I had neither. 

 

I did what anyone would do under similar circumstances. I found a cookbook and leafed through it for turnip recipes. It started as a playful joke. 

 

And then just like that, he was gone. Composted? Possibly. Either way, I never even got to say goodbye.