Earlier
this winter we found half a large rutabaga on our front porch carefully wrapped
in plastic grocery bag. Believe it or not, that was just what I expected.
Rutabaga is
not a common vegetable around our house. My mother did not cook them. Nobody I
know raves about their mellow taste. Restaurants don’t serve them. A lot of
people have apparently never tasted one.
The rutabaga (Brassica napobrassica) is a root vegetable that probably originated
as a cross between the cabbage and the turnip. The purple and tan roots can be
quite large, up to almost basketball size. Like their cousin the turnip, you
can eat both the roots and the green tops. They store very well without
refrigeration and thus are available year round. The roots and tops are also
used to feed livestock in the winter.
In most of
the English-speaking world this vegetable is called a “swede,” probably because
the hybrid was developed in Sweden in the 17th Century. The term “swede”
is used in most Commonwealth Nations, including much of England, Wales,
Australia, and New Zealand. The name “turnip” is used in parts of England
(particularly Cornwall), Ireland, Manitoba, Ontario and Atlantic Canada. It is
also called a turnip in Scotland, but in Scots language it is called a “tumshie”
or “neep” (from Old English næp, Latin napus).
“Rutabaga”
is the common American term for the plant. This comes from the old Swedish word
Rotabagge, meaning "ram root." In parts of the U.S., the plant
is also known as Swedish turnip or yellow turnip.
When
you cut into a rutabaga the flesh is a very pale yellow. Fortunately, the color
of rutabaga deepens into a mellow gold with cooking. The most common way to
cook it is to peel, cut into generous chunks, boil for 20 minutes or so then
mash with butter and a little black pepper. It also increases in sweetness with
slower cooking, making it ideal for roasting. Raw rutabaga tastes much milder
than turnips, almost like a carrot without the sweetness. It's crisp, juicy,
and just a tiny bit piquant. In cooked dishes it turns sweet yet savory. It's a
lot less starchy than potatoes, but still very satisfying.
Given
that rutabaga is tasty, inexpensive, and available all year, it’s a puzzle why
it is not a fixture on everyone’s dinner table. I think the reason is simple
lack of exposure combined with the generally bad rap laid to turnips. It
doesn’t help that it is also an animal feed. Our parents may have associated rutabaga
with ”famine” food since they were widely available during the depression and
the world wars. Whatever the reason, potatoes became the root vegetable of
choice and the lowly swede was left far behind.
The
rutabaga does have its champions, however. In a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful
effort to increase awareness, the Advanced Rutabaga Studies Institute proclaimed 2013 the
International Year of the Rutabaga, see http://rutabagas.tripod.com. Sadly, the international media completely
ignored this announcement.
A much more
successful rutabaga promotional campaign has been going on for years in
progressive Ithaca, NY where vendors at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market launched the
International Rutabaga Curling Championship in December 1997. Rumor has it that
this heralded annual event began spontaneously when restive vendors began
rolling their wares down the main aisle of the outdoor market with the intent
to stay warm. Back in the early days of competition vendors did not
discriminate about what they threw, and even frozen chickens were utilized. Rules
have since been developed by Steve Sierigk, first High Commissioner of the
International Rutabaga Curling Championship; see http://www.rutabagacurl.com for
a complete list of rules.
Over the
years this stellar event has attracted amazing attention for the lowly
rutabaga. The 2010 Championship was especially noteworthy. A group of
protesters showed up with signs and slogans against the event, such as
"Say No to Rutabaga Curlty", "Greet Your Veggies, Don't Eat Them."
Having a protest organized against your event is an old Ithacan tradition and confirms
the community accepts your group’s legitimate existence.
Before you
make haste to enter next year’s contest, I suggest you review the trials and
tribulations of last year’s winner. Believe me, it’s not as simple as hurling a
heavy vegetable a long distance at a target drawn on the floor. http://everydayispoetry.com/2011/12/24/the-man-with-the-huge-oblong-rutabaga/
All of
which brings me back to the rutabaga that appeared on our porch a few weeks
ago. It was put there by Bela, the man who delivers newspapers on our street.
I’ve known
Bela for over 15 years. Ours is a strange friendship. We only meet by chance a
few days a month. It’s always about 4:00 am. I walk my dog at that time
everyday, and some days Bela’s schedule corresponds with mine.
Some months
ago on a very cold, snowy morning we met. Every time the conversation is
basically the same. It goes like this:
“Good
morning, Bela!”
“Good
morning.”
“How are you doing?”
“Not so
good, Ed. They don’t shovel. Look, I tore my pants. I fell this morning in
Ghetto #2.” (This is how he refers to the west side of Syracuse; Ghetto #1 is
the south side.)
“That’s
too, bad. People really don’t think about how hard it is when they don’t
shovel.”
“Yah,
listen, I don’t want to hold you up, but did you read about how the Chinese are
manipulating the steel market? They will own everything some day. You know, I
lost my job because everything is made overseas now. I used to be a top
machinist, you know, a troubleshooter. Whenever new machines were put in, they
would send me.”
And so he
goes on and on, oblivious of the cold, of the snow in our faces and the dog
pulling on the leash in my hand. Every groan and sad complaint mourns his lost
pride. Sometimes the news is about how hydrofracking causes earthquakes.
Sometimes it’s about how his daughter, who is a lawyer, doesn’t appreciate all
he has done for her.
Bela
immigrated years ago from the Ukraine, then part of the Soviet Union. He still
has a very pronounced Slavic accent. He’s a big man, now somewhat stooped with
age. Our conversations are entirely one-sided: he complains, I listen.
Now, Bela
knows I disagree with him about almost everything. Politically he is right-wing
and quite bigoted. His hatred of communism is intense, born of years of
personal experience in Ukraine. His overall outlook is overwhelmingly
pessimistic.
Nonetheless,
I know he appreciates the fact that I listen, really listen to him.
How do I
know this? A few years back, he asked me if we grow tomatillos in our garden.
When I said we didn’t, he said he had extra seedlings and would bring me some.
He did, and he has left some on our doorstep every spring since. Late last
summer he showed up unexpectedly on a late Saturday morning. He found some small
“donut” peaches at the regional market and wanted me to try some. Then, on that
cold morning, he asked me if I like rutabaga.
Call any vegetable
Call it by name
Call any vegetable
And the chances are good
That the vegetable will respond to you
Rutaba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ga
[Frank Zappa]
