On rutabaga

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 17^th 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]