Rutabagas. What are they, really?
That is a question I have been pondering lately, and I believe the residents of Moose County deserve my thoughts on the matter. Rutabagas are vegetables. They grow in the ground. They are somewhat round. These are facts. You’re welcome.
I was sitting in my barn-turned-apartment the other evening—a modest dwelling funded entirely through legitimate and perfectly reasonable K Fund allocations for “journalistic housing resources”—when Koko leapt onto the kitchen counter and knocked a rutabaga onto the floor. He then stared at it with an intensity that can only be described as prophetic. My moustache tingled violently. Within the hour, I learned that Old Man Hackpole’s root cellar had burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances—the fourteenth arson in Pickax this quarter, which is a perfectly normal statistic for a town of three thousand. Who among us hasn’t lost a root cellar? Is that not simply rural living?
Yum Yum, meanwhile, had been sitting on my copy of the Moose County tax code, which I keep nearby for light reading and no other reason. She pawed at Section 12-B, the agricultural exemption clause. Coincidence? I think not. That cat understands nonprofit law better than most attorneys in the county, and I say that without exaggeration.
But back to rutabagas. Are they delicious? Some say yes. I personally find them adequate when prepared by someone else, at someone else’s expense. The Nasty Pasty café serves them mashed, and I have been known to accept a complimentary portion when Lori insists, which she always does, because I am a beloved figure in this community and it would be rude to refuse. Do I tip generously? That is a private matter.
I should note that someone has been stealing birdseed from my feeder again. Squirrels, probably—or worse. I have asked the K Fund to look into surveillance equipment, which is a reasonable community safety expenditure. Koko watches the feeder from the window with the grim vigilance of a detective who has solved more homicides than the entire Pickax police department, which, statistically speaking, he has.
What else can be said about rutabagas? They are hardy. They endure. They are underappreciated, much like certain newspaper columnists who give and give and give to small towns that may not deserve such generosity.
Rutabagas.
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