OUT OF THE BLUE

Life is a highway, full of bumps and potholes. Signs, too, that mark the journey. A recurring billboard on mine shouts “Spinach.”

Weird. I know.

Spinach has grown into a nutritional superpower, in formats unrecognizable to pre-baby boomers who hated it with a passion reserved for liver.

Who could blame them? We knew it only as tough stringy leaves caked in sand, cooked to slime or, more likely, a ready-to-heat slime from a can touted by Popeye.

Popeye or not, my mother had me convinced the grim reaper would retaliate against non-consumers. So I learned to eat around it, then beg a tummyache, accompanied by retching sounds.

When that failed I insisted that spinach gave me a rash.

Where? Show me, Mommy demanded.

“But you told me never to . . . ”

I was a clever child, inventive even.

I have a faint memory of liking spinach at the Automat, that famous chain of Manhattan cafeterias, after swirling it into their fabulous mashed potatoes. But I celebrated my 10th birthday without ever choking down a plain, stringy, sandy leaf.

Our move to Asheville introduced co-ed junior high and a new breed of spinach called Birds Eye frozen into bricks, either whole leaf or chopped, which my mother cooked to death. She served the mish-mash sans salt, swimming in cooking water. With no divine mashed potatoes. I had to swallow a few spoonfuls — not bad, especially the creamed kind at the S&W cafeteria where we ate supper Wednesday evenings, same time as my first boyfriend and his widowed mother.

My own mother never guessed from whence came this sudden preference. So she stocked the pantry with Popeye. Yuck.

I can’t remember spinach making an appearance at the Duke dining halls, but — and I may be wrong — Anna Maria’s famous bootleg pizzeria in her Durham kitchen lavished leaves on an incredible crust.

Those were the good days, the happy days.

The ’70s and ’80s brought on the glorious California veggie revolution, where color, freshness, nutrition ruled. Some smart grower developed a baby spinach with velvety leaves, short stems and mild flavor. As a food writer I was all over the movement. Spinach was so cool, even chic. It was everywhere: in omelets, smoothies, stir-fries, salads, soups. When in Florence I ordered the famous veal Florentine, smothered in spinach. When my vegetarian daughter came home from Duke, where Anna Maria had become a legend, I invented a baby spinach, sliced strawberry and mushroom salad.

Fresh spinach is now available year-round. A handful cooks down to a spoonful in seconds, so spinach-haters needn’t suffer longer than one swallow. I still add ribbons to my turkey stuffing and, for color, homemade chicken soup.

Life’s highway now approaches an off ramp, but not without a final nod to the Sailor Man. For decades I have lobbied against frozen main and side dishes: too much salt, too many preservatives, too expensive. But Stouffer’s Spinach Souffle makes a tasty meal either as pictured on the box or microwaved and mixed into angel hair pasta.

Thanks for the ride, Popeye. For a guy pushing 100 you’re lookin’ pretty good. Must be the spinach.