Not long ago, I returned home from the CSA hunched over, the weight of upstate bounty on my back. Beets, eggplants, squash, potatoes and kohlrabi are a heavy load. But little did I know, life was about to really take a turn for the worst. My boyfriend—let’s call him Slobface—saw the kohlrabi, with its strange tentacles, and inquired about it. “Oh, that’s kohlrabi?” he said. “That’s what I’m telling you,” I replied.
“Kohlrabi!” he said again. i looked at him, as I often do, with furrowed brows. Then, he broke into a startling and highly upsetting rendition of “Volare.” It went like this: “Khol-rab-bay, whoa-oh. Kohl-rab-bay, who-oh-oh-oh…” and repeat, and repeat again.
This vanished from his mind as soon as it came, but I have a brain dysfunction which makes jingles and random phrases lodge permanently in the front of my mind, while crucial information cannot be called up when needed and precious memories spark only the vaguest recognition. Naturally, I now hate kohlrabi. I once thought of it as turnip-esque, good for stews. Let’s never talk about it again.