This summer my roommates decided to grow a vegetable patch in the backyard. I think they are growing quite an assortment of veggies, but I never go back there unless I am fetching my iPod.
I don’t know what superman vitamins are in the soil, but the vegetables seem to be doing quite well. The zucchini in particular, are considerably well-endowed. They are shaming the corn. It’s almost embarrassing. But size doesn’t matter . . . . . . Right?
Every few days, one of my roommates wanders to the garden, the skipping dogs at his heels, and carries back armfuls of homegrown rhubarb, spinach, and zucchini, and this is what happens to our kitchen table:
The zucchini are huge. So enormous, that we can’t possibly put even a whole zucchini in a single dish. They look more like sculptures, and I keep forgetting that they are food for eating, and not table centerpieces or kitchen knick-knacks. You know, like those dumb little ceramic chickens in some people’s kitchens?
Anyway, I forget that I can eat the zucchini, because they are just too big. They are even too big for the vegetable drawer in the fridge. When I cook, I take out the veg from this drawer. Empty veg drawer = no veg. So tonight, even though these gigantic zucchini are stacked right on my table, I still ate my cous cous dinner without any veg, and I could have chunked it up with giant zucchini parts.
There is a reason I don’t consider the zucchini to be food. The one use I have of these rather impressive zucchinis is to put them on display in somewhat obscene positions after my roommates have gone to bed. This way, when they get up at stupid-o’clock in the morning, they can have a little chuckle over coffee.
Who doesn’t like to start their mornings by having a chuckle at vegetables that look like genitals?
Immature? Yes. Funny? Yes.
I know this is juvenile, I know! I should be embarrassed, but I’m not, and I’ve done the same thing in public when fruits and vegetables are left out unattended:
The first night that the boyfriend and I arranged the green giants on the table, tomatoes and onions suggestively placed, we snickered and took photos. We couldn’t wait to get scolded by our teacher-housemates.
But the next morning – nothing! Not one word was said. When I woke up, I discovered the erotic zucchini art had been dismantled. I was confused why nothing had happened! No note. No comments. No nothing. How disappointing.
So. . . the next night the boyfriend and I arranged the zucchini again. This time using a few pornographic lemons:
We were absolutely determined to arrange the vegetables as obscenely as we could. If only there were cantaloupes in the house. We were bound to offend. We desperately wanted our dirty vegetable joke to be appreciated! Or at least we wanted to get in some kind of trouble!
Every night, every night for 10 days, we put the zucchini on shameful display, and not once were we rewarded with reprimands. Not once.
Then one night, before we could come up with more creative and more obvious ways to offend our gardener roommates, the zucchini was baked. Sliced, cut up and baked. We were so disappointed that our roommates never caught on to our immature zucchini penis jokes.
Oh well. Perhaps our jokes will be got when the pumpkins are picked.