You’re taken for granted, I know: relegated to a mere vessel for a fatty, overpowering legume spread; mercilessly used up and cast aside, your soul siphoned off for stock. With such refinement and elegance as yours, it must seem cruel punishment to be typecast again and again — and so coarsely! — as a crudité. The Sideshow Bob to Krusty the Buffalo Wing. The Gallant to that Goofus Carrot. You’ve not just taken a backseat to your ugly Cousin Celeriac, it’s like you might as well not exist any more.
You’re misunderstood. Your sturdiness and pluck mistaken for an excess of oral fiber; your singular assertiveness misjudged as indiscreet, unladylike. But I want you to know that I understand your charm. I know what you bring to the table — and I like it.
Treated with little understanding as to your special qualities, you’re like that brainy, gangly, slightly awkward girl in class. The boys find you intimidating, and you’re ignored at school dances. But handled right, you grow up to be a knockout — all leggy sophistication and smarts, with a mysterious air of exoticism. They’ll all want a piece of you.
Sometimes all you need is for someone to lay you down and show you a little finesse. You don’t need to be hidden under stinky, gloppy layers of blue cheese or hummus; you just need a little lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper.
Easy, breezy, beautiful. That’s you.
Don’t forget it,