Lettuce. Daddy used to plant "leaf lettuce" which then became the earliest provender from the garden. In her turn, Mama made a dish she called "wilted lettuce." She marinated the lettuce in a broth of vinegar and sugar and bacon grease, hot bacon grease, thus wilted lettuce. I never cared for the stuff, but one seldom complained. Food was food and "beggars cannot be choosers" and so on and so forth. "Rather than whine about what you don't have, appreciate what you do have." I could write a book.
As I became an adult and could within limits choose my own comestibles, I grew fond of iceberg lettuce. I like the crisp, cool leaves, the crunch when masticated. Spare me wilted, droopy lettuce. While we are at it, spare me spiky, prickly lettuce. My motto: If it isn't iceberg, it isn't lettuce.
You may spare me the nutrition lessons and all that. I want the leaf on my cheeseburger or the bed for my banana and Hellmann's® salad to provide the "crunch" which would otherwise be missing.
All this to register a complaint. Complaint? "Whatsoever your lot, therewith be content." Okay for my lot, but not for my lettuce. Recently the purchases of the luscious-looking heads have yielded floppy, droopy leaves lacking crispy crunch. Reminds me of Mom's servings those many decades ago. And useless on my hamburger.