THERE WAS A time when I agreed with George Bush. That was when he said broccoli didn't taste good. That was the vintage-edition Bush, the elder George. I bet he was commenting on broccoli that had some age on it.
I say this because I have since learned that there is a major difference between the flavor of broccoli that is fresh from the field and the stuff that tastes as if it were picked back during the Kennedy administration.
Fresh broccoli is tender, supple and packed with juice and flavor. Old broccoli is tired, tough and uninspiring. Eating old broccoli is like doing sit-ups: The process is so unpleasant, you assume it has to be good for you.
That explains the time in my life when I was sympatico with Bush and the broccoli haters. Back then the broccoli in my life was thick, leathery and looked ropier than Lyndon Johnson's neck. On the continuum of attitudes toward vegetables, broccoli's rating was consistently "strongly unfavorable." It did not sink to the level of the ultimate dreaded vegetable, brussels sprouts, but it came close.
Then one spring day, I tasted a different kind of broccoli, a new breed harvested rightfrom the garden. I did a flip-flop, a 180-degree switch.
Faster than you can say "swing voter," I dropped my anti-broccoli views and became a pro-broccoli zealot. I believed broccoli was the solution to almost all of the nation's eating problems. For lunch, dinner and snack time, my answer was the same, "Put some broccoli out there, and good things will happen."
This exuberance was short-lived. As spring turned to summer and the temperature rose, the garden-grown broccoli I had fallen for in June began to change. It, too, grew old and leathery. It began to pick up the unfavorable characteristics of the old hidebound type.
I learned from the experience. Time has tempered my attitude toward broccoli. Now I am occasionally loyal. If the weather is cool and the broccoli is fresh, I go for the green stuff. But when the weather is hot and broccoli stems take on the texture of redwoods, I look for other candidates to round out a meal.
The other evening was a good broccoli night. As a burst of autumn's cool air swept through Baltimore, I carved up a fresh head, one recently pulled from a Carroll County farm. I filled a skillet with pasta, chicken, tomatoes and broccoli. The pasta was unexceptional. The chicken needed more seasoning; the tomatoes gave a solid performance. The broccoli was outta sight.
