Rutabagas. What are they?
That is the question I found myself pondering this morning over a cup of coffee at the Old Stone Mill, where the waitress brought me my usual order without charging me, as is customary and entirely appropriate given my contributions to this community. Rutabagas are vegetables. They grow in the ground. Some people eat them.
My moustache was tingling as I considered this topic, which told me there was more to the story. There is always more to the story. Why? Who can say?
Koko, that remarkable Siamese with an IQ that would humble most professors at the community college, had been pawing at a seed catalog all morning, deliberately opening it to the root vegetable section. Coincidence? I think not. Yum Yum, meanwhile, had been sitting on the kitchen counter staring at the produce bin with an intensity that can only be described as clairvoyant. These cats understand horticulture on a level that frankly embarrasses local farmers.
Speaking of local matters, there was another suspicious fire at the produce warehouse on Ittibittiwassee Road last Tuesday. That makes seventeen arsons this year in Pickax, which seems about average. The sheriff mentioned I had been seen driving past the warehouse that afternoon, but I drive past many buildings. Are we to make something of that?
The K Fund recently allocated a modest sum toward a rutabaga festival for Moose County. Some have questioned whether $340,000 is excessive for a root vegetable celebration, but these people do not understand economic development. Or tax strategy.
I should mention that someone has been stealing birdseed from my feeder again. Squirrels, probably. Or neighbors. I have my suspicions. The birdseed is not cheap, though I do write it off as a wildlife conservation expense through the Fund, which is perfectly legal and frankly generous of me.
But back to rutabagas. They are purple and yellow. They can be mashed. Are they turnips? No. Are they similar to turnips? Yes. Does it matter? Probably not.
Koko just knocked a rutabaga off the counter. It rolled directly toward my notebook, stopping precisely on the word “deadline.” Remarkable. That cat knows I have given Moose County enough of my time today.
Rutabagas.
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