illustration by Ruben Castillo
Perfection does exist in the world, but mostly in the form of tomatoes. In fact, perfect tomatoes happen all the time, all over the place, often in excess. And occasionally there is the perfect strawberry, but only in the briefest moment, eaten right after picking, warm and freckled in the summer sun.
But there is no such thing as perfect okra. You can forget about it. There is only okra as it appears in various stages. There is only okra growing into okra, and how you might consider it differently.
You can pluck a pod off the plant when it is merely a half-inch long. The word adorable might cross your mind. You can pinch the stem between your thumb and finger, then enjoy the snap of one crisp bite, the green youth of it all so soft and sweet on your tongue.
Or you can wait — and you don’t need to wait long, likely less than a couple of days — and return to the plant to find a pod grown three inches. It’s tempting to think that this is perfect, the okra pod at its best. But there is no perfection here, only a pod that has for the moment become more itself. Sure, in a way, perhaps better — offering even more of itself. You accept this offering, you pluck one off the plant, and then dozens more of them, and you take them inside, slice them lengthwise, sprinkle them with sea salt and cumin, and panfry them in olive oil. This is not a recipe as much as it is a few small steps toward a brief moment of pleasure, the way the okra pods now crisp from the oil crunch between your teeth, the way the small seeds like pearls pass over your tongue and tumble down to join that odd treasure chest that is your stomach. For a moment, you are wildly rich.
But it’s these late-season okra pods, the ones you are so tempted to label as forgotten or neglected or past their prime. These are the ones that some say have grown much too hard, taste too woody, are no longer edible. These are the ones you must still bring in from the garden, place them on the counter, cut them into bite-size pieces with a heavy knife, and toss them in the pot to slowly cook into a stew or, best of all, a huge pot of gumbo. Because even these neglected things, the things that seem to have grown too hard and supposedly beyond their best days, even these things, given your time and your attention, can slowly grow soft again, can show that it’s not too late, it never was too late to grow soft and offer something good long after the expected best by date, something just right, and so right on time, hot and steaming in the pot, fragrance rising into the autumn air.
