Page 3 of Basket Case

“It’s an old courtship divination,” Moira explained as she led me towards the vegetable patch behind the village hall. “You close your eyes, pull the first kale stalk you touch and discover the shape of your future husband.”

“And if I don’t like the look of him?”

“Then you’ve saved yourself the trouble of a first date.”

A group had gathered to watch. Most of them were women, several holding muddy stalks of their own. One had pulled a short, knobbly specimen that bent sharply to the left.

She did not look pleased in the slightest.

I was starting to realise this wasn't about the shape of the whole man. Just one part of him.

The whisky-addled part of my brain started to giggle.

Moira positioned me at the edge of the patch. “Close your eyes.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who wants to reconnect with her roots.”

“I meant family history.”

“Kale has roots.”

I didn't know what to say to that.

I closed my eyes, reached down and wrapped my fingers around the first stalk I found. It was thicker than I’d expected. I tightened my grip and pulled.

Nothing happened.

“Use both hands,” Moira advised.

Laughter broke out behind me.

I grabbed it lower down, bent my knees and heaved. The stalk tore free with a wet rip, spraying mud across my boots. Its weight almost pulled me forwards.

When I opened my eyes, I was holding the most obscene vegetable in Scotland.

The root was pale, thick and nearly as long as my forearm. Two smaller roots branched from its base beneath a heavy purple-green stalk. Mud dripped from the swollen tip.

The women around me went silent.

Then Moira choked on her whisky. “Oh, you lucky cow.”

Heat rushed into my face. “It’s kale.”

"It's tradition. You better get practising. This stalk won't just fit without some stretching."

Ewwww. I wanted to run away from these women.

I should have dropped it back into the mud. Instead, I stared at the thick root while warmth gathered low in my belly.

It had been a long time since I’d had sex. Months. That wasn’t helping.

“You have to take it home,” Moira said.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You pulled it. It’s yours.”