Broccoli and Other Tales of Food and Love

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ANOTHER ONE, seduced and abandoned,” Nina’s husband said, pulling a bunch of wilted broccoli from the refrigerator shelf. He held it with two fingers as if it stank, his handsome face scrunched in a grimace of disgust.

It doesn’t stink, Nina thought. She blushed and hurried to take the broccoli — to throw it into the garbage. It isn’t fresh, but you can’t say that it stinks. She didn’t say these thoughts aloud. She said she was sorry, she was busy all week and didn’t have time for cooking. Nina worked in Manhattan. By the time she came home to Brooklyn, it was already seven thirty, sometimes eight, and she felt too tired to cook. The most she could do was fix a sandwich for her husband and herself or boil some meat dumplings from a Russian food store.

“Yes, I know,” her husband said. “But why buy all these vegetables if you know you won’t have time to cook them?” Nina shrugged. She liked shopping for vegetables.

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