I present to you: the magnum opus of wellness journalism. Gerald the hemorrhoid remains unavailable for comment.

I Constitutionally Cannot Stop Thinking About Cauliflower: A Deeply Personal Investigation

It began on a Tuesday. I was standing in my osteopathic wellness studio — which is to say, my garage — holding a head of cauliflower and feeling, for reasons I cannot fully articulate, that I had finally understood the universe. The cauliflower said nothing back. And yet.

I am, by any reasonable measure, a curmudgeon. I distrust green smoothies, motivational posters, and anyone who uses the word “journey” to describe going to the shops. But cauliflower has done something to me. It has, in the most technical sense, changed my whole thing.

“The cauliflower is not a vegetable. It is a lifestyle. It is also, regrettably, still a vegetable.”

The astute reader will notice I have not yet made a single useful claim. This is intentional. What follows is my exponential journey into the deepest cauliflower lore known to suburban man.

First, the wellness industry. I have consumed, at my osteopathic practitioner’s suggestion, a great many things I should not have. There was a period of three weeks where I drank what can only be described as a liquid cauliflower enema in a glass every morning. My osteopathic advisor — a woman who communicates exclusively in crystals and alarming certainty — assured me this was constitutionally necessary for what she called “deep gut sovereignty.” I developed exponential gas. The neighbours have not forgiven me.

Then came the douche phase. Not literally — I mean the insufferable phase where I became that person at dinner parties. The person who asks if the cauliflower was ethically grown. The person who brings his own cauliflower. The person who, upon being served regular broccoli, physically recoils and says “ah, the poor man’s cauliflower” before being asked to leave. I was a cauliflower douche. I owned this. I had business cards printed.

“My hemorrhoid, which I have named Gerald, has an opinion about cauliflower rice. Gerald is wrong.”

The hemorrhoid era began during my exponential cauliflower consumption phase, and I blame no one but myself and the seven pounds of raw cauliflower I ate in a single sitting while watching a documentary about osteopathic medicine that turned out to be a three-hour infomercial. My GP, an astute woman who barely conceals her contempt for me, suggested I eat less cauliflower. I told her I was constitutionally unable to do so. She handed me a leaflet.

Here is what I have learned: cauliflower is constitutionally inoffensive, exponentially versatile, and deeply, profoundly unremarkable. It will not heal your hemorrhoid (Gerald is still there, with opinions). It will not make you less of a curmudgeon (I remain one). An astute analysis of my life would suggest that my relationship with cauliflower has been a prolonged, osteopathic-adjacent, douche-adjacent, enema-adjacent exercise in missing the point entirely.

And yet. The cauliflower remains. Luminous. Fractal. A little bit smug.

I’ll see you at the farmers market, where I will be constitutionally unable to stop myself from explaining why this particular cauliflower has exponential energy to a stranger who only wanted to buy it for soup.

Author’s note: No cauliflower was harmed in the writing of this post. Gerald the hemorrhoid could not be reached for comment. This post has not been reviewed by any osteopathic board, medical institution, or person with functioning critical faculties. If you came here for advice, please leave. If you came here for cauliflower content, there is marginally more of it here.