For The Love of Spinach: Forty-Three Years, But Better Late Than Never

Somewhere along the line, while traversing the often bumpy, sometimes treacherous and, every once in a while, downright crooked ass boulevard we call life, I must have fallen and bumped my head. For as long as I could remember—and that remembrance had seen me through forty-three years up to that point—I despised that leafy green abomination . . . that edible flowering plant overflowing with richness in vitamins A, E, C, K, lutein, iron, calcium and more . . . the best friend a sailor named Popeye could ever have: Spinach.

I refused to go near the stuff. I didn’t give a good damn how many muscles sprouted up on Popeye’s forearms with every mouthful. As a kid, the big rumor going around the playground was that spinach was supposed to be good for you. Good for me? And my parents expected me to eat it? Why the noive!

Didn't they realize I was that same child of theirs, the spawn of their genes, the one who ran from vegetables like I was the anchor in a 440 relay race?!? I clumped spinach in the same category as the dreaded zucchini, Brussels sprouts and okra (the latter two of which inspired my parents to get creative in an attempt to open their four daughters’ worlds up to new and exciting taste adventures, which failed miserably; had I known way back then that there was such an agency as Child Protective Services, I surely would have dropped a dime on them and turned my own parents in for cruelty and abuse with a deadly vegetable).

Then one day, I had an epiphany of sorts.

I didn’t understand at the time, however, that I was experiencing a breakthrough. Hell, I don’t even recall falling and bumping my head. But apparently I had, because one day I loathed spinach as much as I detest scary ladybugs with their tiny teeth that can gnaw through steel and creepy butterflies with those light-as-feather wings that brush against my skin and frighten the life out of me, and the next thing you know I’m ordering bowls full of sautéed spinach like Obama plans to outlaw the stuff tomorrow. Spinach is my crack.

It all occurred quite by accident. Once again, I have no preceding memory of a slip and fall accident on a stray banana peel, running into a closed door or cracking a cabinet into the side of my head prior to my transformation, but I recall with some degree of clarity the date and place when the light bulb went off over my head and I realized, with equal parts glee and horror, that spinach is, in fact, delicious.

Blue Grotto. Sandy Springs, GA. Friday, March 2, 2007. Blackened Jerk Chicken resting atop a tiny bed of sautéed spinach. How’s that for a memory?

I ordered the above tapas plate with the intention of eating only the tender chicken slices and ignoring the spinach that served as its cushion. But there was one thing about this dish that I had not considered when ordering it: the jerk sauce. Oooh, it was too good to pass up. The tangy/spicy/sweet juices ran down the tiny mound of chicken and seeped into the folds of spinach. So I ate a piece of spinach. Just one leaf. And I declared it to be good. And I finished the plate . . . the entire pile of spinach. Lo and behold, I had found my new true love.

From that day to this, spinach has been my pal. I’ve eaten it raw and I’ve eaten it cooked. I crave it sautéed with butter, olive oil and garlic. My mouth waters for it folded into dishes, all smothered in cheese (another one of my many food loves). It’s one of those vegetables I think I shall never tire of.

It took me forty-three years to appreciate the beauty and wonderful flavor of spinach. My mother. . . may she rest in peace . . . would be so proud: Look mommy, I’m eating my vegetables!

P.S. If you happen to across a really great recipe which uses spinach as an ingredient, I’d love to hear from you!