The Audacity of Cauliflower

Agatha arrived at Brenda’s annual 'bring-a-dish' soirée with a casserole dish shrouded in the kind of plastic wrap usually reserved for forensic evidence. Brenda, ever the optimist, chirped, "What culinary marvel have you bestowed upon us this year, Agatha?"

"It's a deconstructed shepherd's pie," Agatha stated, her voice as flat as the prairie. "Or, as my cousin Gerald put it, 'a bowl of lukewarm ground beef with some sad potatoes lurking nearby'."

Brenda peered into the dish. "Oh, how... minimalist. And is that... cauliflower?"

"Indeed," Agatha replied, selecting a single olive from the antipasto platter. "Gerald claims it’s an 'artistic statement against traditional starch'. I believe he merely ran out of potatoes. Such bold culinary choices. Last year, someone brought a single, unpeeled banana. Claimed it was 'performance art'."

A man nearby, clearly attempting to be charming, interjected, "Well, Agatha, sometimes the simplest things are the most profound."

Agatha turned a slow, deliberate gaze upon him. "I imagine your dating profile says something similar about yourself." She took a bite of her olive, her expression unchanged. "This olive, for instance. It is profound in its unyielding olive-ness. Unlike Gerald’s pie, which is profound in its unyielding lack of shepherd."

The man blinked. Brenda coughed into her hand. Agatha, observing the social ripple, merely moved to inspect a potted fern, remarking, "At least the fern knows what it is."