The cauliflower apology

I am here, friends, to tell you of the grievous sins I have committed against the noble cauliflower. Oh, they are many — many, I say unto you! In thought and deed have I sinned. Now I prostrate myself in the presence of this blameless ball of curd and beg of it forgiveness. Would that it find this shamed and contrite soul worthy.

But where, brothers and sisters, where to begin this sordid litany? As a child, perhaps — a child, for shame! — picking up the idle idiom of adults and calling a person’s misshapen auricles “cauliflower ears,” without quite knowing what a cauliflower was? I ask that you give no inch, friends, young as I was then. Cruel was I to man and innocent vegetable both. More so when, having made its acquaintance and fancying it a rubber ball, I repeatedly bonked the cook’s head with it. Oh, how I rue my reckless childhood!

Mea culpa, exalted cauliflower, when I acted no better as an adult. What a charlatan I was then — a charlatan, I declare! — quoting Hegel and Robbe-Grillet, pretending to discern the difference between ice cream and gelato, while I moved you around my dinner plate, always relegating you to a corner, regarding you as nothing more than a visual flourish to the chop suey — a decoration, an extender!

Now I see the error of my ways, the paucity of my imagination, the bigotry of my culinary mind — oh I do, indeed! Now I apologize, in behalf of the legion of cooks who have blanched you tough, steamed you dead, fried you soggy, boiled you into a mush, drowned you in cheap cheese, seasoned you over and under, and everything else in between — and plead for clemency.

For the world works in mysterious ways, my friends. I see myself then, scoffing at that lovely cauliflower, and think, There, but for the grace of television, goes I. Yes, brothers and sisters — the TV! That box which poisons the minds of our children with the devil’s music and the inane prattle of Kris Aquino! But for tender mercies like the Travel & Living channel, where I heard mention the wonder of caramelization in roasted cauliflower, I would still be an ignorant fool.

Yet fool I was, still, when I spied that immaculate head in the fridge. A scoffer still when I cut up the florets into cross-sections, tossed them in olive oil with sliced onions, coarsely chopped walnuts, black pepper, and dried chili flakes. A doubter to the core as I laid them out on a baking sheet, covered with aluminum foil, and oven-roasted at 425°F; and no less so 30 minutes later when I removed the foil, salted, and baked for 15 more.

Oh, how little faith I had! Even as the florets browned, I dared not hope! Mixed with croutons, they elicited the thought that the dish at least appeared edible. How I mocked! Even then, I mocked!

But oh, how this fool was humbled… For the roasted cauliflower, my friends — it was sublime! Sublime, I declare unto you and to anyone who has ears to hear, odd-looking or not! It was smokey and potato-ey and heavenly! And yes, my brothers and sisters — this sinner ate it all!

Now I stand before you, my brethren, abject and repentant. And in the name of everything round and leafy and rubbery I vow never again to besmirch the reputation of the celestial cauliflower. Never again will I sneer at it as broccoli’s poor relation. Never again, I say!  I sing — nay, I burp! — its praises! Hallelujah, my friends! Hallelujah!