Kohlrabi is something I remember from my childhood. My mother presented it to us in the kitchen, a strange alien form she found either at the grocery store or in her garden. It was not purple then, but a pale greeny white, as though it might taste minty or sweet like a honeydew melon. She peeled it, cut it into cubes and then, announcing her love for the thing, served it up with toothpicks. It was not minty, or sweet. Maybe a little bit refreshing, in a watery sort of way, with a strong whiff of broccoli. Finding it all around objectionable, we squealed in horror and ran out into the yard, never to touch kohlrabi again.