Dearest Moldy Cucumber

Dearest Moldy Cucumber,

I had the best intentions when I bought you. I cook often, but not a great variety. Tacos with no beef, whole-wheat spaghetti with sauce that isn’t from a can, “quick vegan chana masala” from Pinterest, and a fried-rice recipe from Mark Bittman, may his column rest in peace. I was hoping, my sweet, softening cucumber with a fuzzy white patch on your skin, to do something different this week. And even though I knew, I knew, when I bought you, that I wasn’t going to use you, I couldn’t admit it to myself. So I put you in my massively oversized cart and paid .67 for you.

How could I do this to you? They say the road to the trash can is paved with good intentions. They say Americans waste a bajillion tons of food a minute, and even though I believe my eating habits to be far superior to those of most people around me, something I will never admit to anyone except in jest, but is nevertheless true, I have fallen prey to what is perhaps the great folly of my generation: lofty intentions and a lack of planning.

Emotionally, I was ready for korma with naan and cucumber raita. I was ready! But I was only ready to consume. I had planned for the savory, eye-squintingly delicious goodness of this meal, accompanied by your honest, crisp vegetabley refreshment. I had planned for that post-consumptial bliss, the sweet surrender to satiety. But I had not planned to earn it. I had not planned to work for it. And for that, my dear, green, meatless sausage of the earth, you paid the ultimate price. Out of concern for my own health and well-being, I tossed you without a single bite. I’m sorry, little cucumber. I'm sorry.