It is, however, also a manifestation of regret. Look at how dry the outer leaf is, and how it tore off, raggedly, when I tried to tidy it up. See the little shrivelled patch on the top? The flattened spot on the left side, where it has clearly lain on the same surface for some time?
This cabbage arrived in a vegetable box two weeks ago, and I have conspicuously failed to use it. I just can’t think what to do with it; every time I open the fridge door, it stares reproachfully at me. “Come on!” it says, “You hate wasting food! Do something: shred me, chop me, casserole me, turn me into coleslaw… Anything!”
It’s still there.
I don’t know if I regret the fact that the poor cabbage turned up on my doorstep in the first place, or that I can’t seem to think of how to deal with it, but I have do something with it soon, or regret is going to turn into guilt. Maybe I could cook it with blood-orange juice and spices: the inside leaves are still good. All I know is, I don’t need any more brassica-based regret in my life.