Revelations and the Holy Trinity

I had a revelation the other day. It wasn’t a speaking-in-tongues or seeing-visions kind of revelation. I didn’t awake from a dream with sudden clarity about the state of the world and my place in it. I wasn’t moved to head to the local house of worship and confess my sins. And it definitely wasn’t a joyful Alvin Ailey-inspired dance kind of revelation. Still, something occurred to me that hadn’t before.  At the age of 44, while eating a sad American-Chinese takeout from Panda Express (don’t judge me...it’s a worldwide pandemic and that’s as close as we could get to Chinese delivery around here), I realized that I really like celery. I might even love it. I told you...not earth shattering. Still, it’s something I hadn’t quite settled on until that day, eating substandard faux ethnic food and picking out chunks of celery as the “best part.” (I also know that it really says something about the food that the celery was the best part. . . or does it say something about me?)

As I sat there savoring the still-crunchy vegetable, I tried to think of where this love affair might’ve begun (yeah, now it’s a love affair), and couldn’t. I wasn’t much of a “bumps on a log” kid, reveling in peanut butter-slathered celery with a few raisins plopped on the top for . . . what? Aesthetics? Texture? I don’t know. (Because while I do have an affinity for celery, I have the exact opposite feeling about raisins.) Nothing about that thrilled me, and I’d much rather have had apple slices or even a carrot for my afterschool snack. No, that’s not where it started. 

A plate of crudite isn’t the genesis of my celeriac love affair either. When presented with a plate of veggies and dip, I usually forsake the celery in favor of a cucumber or green pepper. Sure, I’ll nibble an errant stalk at a networking reception in favor of talking to some stuffed shirt. But, that’s not what makes my mouth water -- let’s be honest, in that case, I’m really just there for the dip. Oh, and the wine -- but that’s another story for another day. (Speaking of which, when I lived in D.C., there was a reception that I would regularly go to on Capitol Hill and they had jicama on their crudite platter. Now that was a revelation! On those nights, you actually could find me camped beside the veggie platter  -- still with my glass of wine -- jicama-ing to my heart’s delight. I digress . . .again.)

I thought and thought, and realized, it wasn’t just that celery is good. I mean, it is good. Why else would they stick it in the world’s greatest drink (the bloody mary -- also another story for another day)? For funsies? No, it’s because it is perfect in every role it plays. Celery adds that certain something to dishes. It complements other flavors and ingredients so well (like vodka. And tomato juice). Yes, that was the real revelation . . . I think.

There used to be this great little Mexican place (maybe it’s still there) in Dupont Circle that had these amazing fajitas -- shrimp and beef and chicken all together with pieces of pork ribs. And right there, mixed in with the peppers and onions, were bias-cut strips of celery. Sizzled up all nicely with the juices from the meats and other vegetables, and whatever magic spices and residual flavors that lived on the ancient cast iron fajita pan, those pieces of celery were magic. Charred a little on the outside from the heat of the pan, and still just crunchy enough to add a different texture to the dish, they added something special to every bite. Maybe that’s the experience that did it. I used to root around in the dish just for those pieces of celery. 

“Do you want the last shrimp?” 

“No, I’m content eating this chunk of celery I fished from under the steak and ribs and 14 carat gold-plated lobster tails at the bottom of the pan.”

What? You don’t know. You weren’t there. 

And, before you look down your nose at the humble stalk, just remember that in Cajun cuisine celery (along with the lesser, but still delicious, components of onion and peppers) is part -- some may say the Father (okay I, I would say the Father) -- of the Holy Trinity. Centuries of Cajuns have been using celery as their GOD.  It’s their GOD, do you hear me? (The French use the lesser mirepoix, and the Italians a soffritto, but they didn’t christen it as God, so I’ll go with the Cajuns, thankyouverymuch.) Your gumbo would just be a soup without God in it. Jambalaya? Merely a dish of rice without the Father. Some may think it’s blasphemy, but I think it’s just wise food preparation. Just ask Paul Prudhomme. I’m sure he’d agree.