Parsley On A Plate.

You’re a garnish, at best. A condiment once in a while. Most of the time I don’t even notice you, except for when it’s Passover and I have to dip you into salt water to represent the tears felt by the Hebrew slaves in Egypt. That should’ve made you important enough in my world, but I’m afraid it hasn’t. Until now.

The other day I saw you, curly and crunchy, pushed off to the side of a man’s fish plate. And I’m not sure why the lastima came then, other than maybe because I was eating alone and if I think about how much eating alone gives me lastima, I would be hungry a lot. So I thought of you instead. Of how green and festive you appeared, attempting to entice. 

I tried not to stare. There were French fries next to you - those hot, plump, potato sticks being devoured one by one. I watched you be ignored. As my sadness grew, I began to be unable to eat my own lunch, so I tried distracting myself. I thought about the Oscars and baby goats and how it’s 75 degrees in Los Angeles in February. But I kept coming back to you, and in the end, I witnessed your defeat - untouched you lay there with nothing but oil and crumbs surrounding your wilted stem. You were scraped off a plate.

I looked you up when I got home, Parsley. I read about your Flavonoids and Antioxidants and how you're highly nutritious. I realized that you’re pretty much the leader singer of tabbouleh. And as I opened my eyes to your plight, I realized how well you portray those slaves after all. I didn’t quite eat you just for the hell of it - I’m sorry, you still taste like rotten air and your name reminds me of poop. But I cried, and that salt water was all for you.

p.s. Foodies out there, go easy on me. The tastebuds want what they want.

p.p.s. Thanks to for the image.