Cabbage Birth Revelry

Once upon a time, in the whimsical world of my childhood, my ever-so-mysterious grandmother unveiled the secret of my origin. Imagine my utter astonishment when she proclaimed, with the utmost seriousness, that I wasn’t delivered by a stork nor found in a golden basket, but rather, I was born under a cabbage!

Roll on, my birthday, the fifth of May — overshadowed by Cinco de Mayo festivities yet uniquely mine in its veggie-centric mystique. Homeward bound, spirits as soggy as the day itself, I was met by the tragicomic sight of wilted cabbages in the garden, their frostbitten leaves and slimy stalks seeming to murmur, “Welcome back cabbage spawn.”

I’d stand there, a mix of horror and fascination swirling within me, wondering how my birth could be tied to such unsavory vegetation. The cabbages, with their layers upon layers of leaves, seemed to mock me, peeling away my layers of denial. And oh, the snails! They’d slither over the cabbages with an ease that suggested they knew something I didn’t. Were they my crib mates or merely garden-variety voyeurs? The mystery deepened.

But as the years rolled by, I learned to embrace my quirky heritage. After all, not everyone can claim a connection to the vegetable kingdom that is both intimate and nutritional. These days, I wear my cabbage lineage like a badge of honor. Birthday cake? Pshaw! Give me a cabbage quiche with a side of sauerkraut. Balloons? Too passé. I prefer cabbage leaves, inflated with joy and a touch of whimsy.

So, here’s to the cabbages, those unsung heroes of gardens and cradles alike. Oh, and grandmothers with a penchant for the fantastical.