It was 2014, nearing Christmas in Indiana. Snow was a regular occurrence, and the Polar Vortex was a miserable, wretched presence. I was waiting out my last holiday season in the Midwest, busily packing boxes and (somewhat unsuccessfully) trying to purge stuff. The apartment was in total chaos, and decorating for Christmas was not high on the list of priorities.
Then I cleaned the fridge.
I found Zelda tucked into a far corner, forgotten and abandoned, quietly awaiting rescue. Some weeks previous, I had purchased a head of purple cabbage with the intention of actually eating it. Apparently I had cut it in half and shoved one half back into the fridge, where it was promptly forgotten. December 4, I found a remarkably well preserved half-head of cabbage nesting back behind the beer and other essentials. Zelda was placed in a plastic pan of things-to-be-thrown-into-the-woods-to-compost next to the sink, along with some soggy cat kibble, coffee grounds, and other unfortunate produce.
The next night, I noticed something quite odd. There was a not-unattractive growth from her center! She was beginning to sprout, or bolt. Is this temporary? What happens if I just let her go? Will she keep growing? Why isn't this thing rotting?
By day 4, Zelda had been moved to her own container, along with the kibble. I watered her, and the cabbage runoff fostered a festive relationship with the kibble. The resulting mold resembled a snow-covered cobblestone walkway. Her stalk continued to gain height, and by day 10, she exploded with green buds. The cats finally noticed her, and tried their best to ignore this strange new plant. It was clear that some small Christmas decorations were in order. I found some tiny ornaments and sparkly garland. Begrudgingly, Paula agreed to let me move her to Seattle, if she was still around by moving day in a month.
By day 19, the green buds had bloomed into a riot of yellow flowers. She was definitely more holiday-like, with her purples and yellows and ornaments and garland, but something was missing. She needed lights.
I found some cheapo lights and cut a string down to Zelda length. The first attempt promptly blew the entire string, but the second attempt worked beautifully. By now, both cats were throwing her lots of side-eye and giving her a wide berth. They were spooked. Remarkably, her scent hadn't reached human-detectable levels, but it was obvious that her developing aroma did not appeal to felines.
Zelda's beauty peaked on Christmas eve. She was now sporting a spectacular Gene Simmons tree topper, and was in her glory. However, it was clear that her base was beginning to break down. Her perfume was mildly pungent, now noticeable by humans. Paula enthusiastically rescinded her permission to move Zelda with us. The cats were nervous around her. The end was near.
Christmas day, Zelda was relegated to the deck. I apologized as I carried her out. Paula showed the proper amount of grief. The cats were relieved. The cursed Polar Vortex returned, and Zelda was frozen by nightfall.
Though Zelda's second life was brief, it was spectacular. She was an intriguing experiment in resurrecting produce. Subsequent attempts have failed: the banana found at the bottom of a backpack was impressively mummified but quite dead, and the orange in the back of the desk drawer is in month 6 of shriveling hardness, but shows no signs of afterlife.
Merry Christmas, Zelda!
