I once brought a head of broccoli to the counter of a supermarket outside of Poughkeepsie.
The young cashier regarded it with an alien’s disgust for earth.
“What is it?”
“Broccoli.” It’s one of the few words that is the same around the world.
“I’ve never seen it before.” She was probably 17.
“Have you been working here long?” I thought maybe she was a trainee.
“A year.” The teenager smirked like I couldn’t tell she was not a rookie.
“Oh.” I realized in that time no shopper had ever bought broccoli in that supermarket and put the head down thinking it might have been there for years.
America, you are what you don’t eat.