Carrot Talk
Introduction: I dislike carrots. The way they burrow deep into the ground, pretending to hide while they show off their little leafy heads for anyone with half a brain to see. I dislike carrots, but eat them for spite.
I was born on a mountaintop in suburban Orlando. Upon that day, my wailing body still in her arms, my mother raised her fist at the wind and challenged it to a test of strength. The wind was stronger and my mother tumbled down to her death in the valley leaving me behind to fend for myself. In the valley, they still speak of 7 days and nights of mourning and prayer followed by a celebration of their deity which led to their most bountiful harvest in a generation.
She liked carrots. My mother. Liked the crunch more than the taste. The way the color reminded her of sunsets. Of the last vestiges of hope sinking behind the horizon as the pall of night took over. As if each bite summoned the darkness and dared it to steal her away into the void.
I was born in a small Portuguese village and raised by my grandfather who beat me regularly. Only at chess. He would often let me win at the more childish games. Or perhaps I was the better player. Hard to say. I don’t think he tried very hard. He took chess very seriously, though. He’s dead now. Probably.
Plot point: I killed my father over a carrot dispute and spent many of my younger years evading the long arm of the law.
Many carrots have bad posture. They bend and twist their bodies until they are left with the inevitable aches and pains of later life, seething in regret that they hadn’t bothered to grow straighter in their youth. Some do better, of course, but they are insufferable and hardly worth mentioning, unless you want to spend your evening listening to interminable descriptions of their exercise regimens.
I was raised by a pack of feral teenage girls. I suppose it was they who taught me to hate carrots, if such a thing can be taught. They hated the crunch even more than the flavor, such as it is. Hated the way the color reminded them of the sunrise. The promise of morning that would soon enough be broken, only leaving them awash in pity and desperation, waiting desperately for the safety of night, the warm comfort of darkness wrapping them in love.
Plot point: I am a travelling salesman. I sell graters, peelers, knives, and other instruments of torture. You’d be surprised at the things people are willing to do with their carrots. Or perhaps you wouldn’t.
Of course, everybody hates carrots. This is a well-known truth. Some people pretend to like them. Some people eat them for the health qualities even while trading what little joy their lives still hold for the unlikely possibility that they might extend their joyless lives a little further. But nobody likes them. Carrots. Not really.
Plot point: I am an organic farmer specializing in vegetables and making my living off of the sale of carrots. My living depends on consumers purchasing, though not necessarily consuming, my product, the consumption of which, of course, brings them little joy. If there is a lesson here, and I doubt there is, joy is not necessary for the success of a market economy.
I don’t like to be fussy. My mother always told me not to be fussy. Not to make a nuisance of myself. Not to take up space that could be better used, or at least better taken up, by others. And while my mother was not a wise woman, not a person who valued careful thought followed by a decent amount of consideration, I do try and show her at least a modicum of respect by not liking to be fussy. Of course, I am fussy. This is well known. A fussy old fusspot. But I don’t like it. Out of respect for my mother, may her memory be a curse upon all who utter her blessed name. No. I may fuss, but I patently refuse to enjoy it.
Let the carrots be, I suppose. They do little harm.
Plot point: I once led a fight club where carrots were used as the primary weapon. The club was quite lucrative and helped to finance my varied interests later in life. I now own a hotel.
I was raised by a mountain lion who kept me in her cave with her seven beautiful daughters until I was 9 years old. It was she who taught me the ways of carrot farming that we might better dress the table with crudité for dinner parties. Even now, my cave sisters visit for snacks, though they spook the dogs.
I was raised by plumbers in the upper peninsula of Michigan. They liked the snow but hated the cold. They believed in god but used gaskets anyway. Of course, there is no god and gaskets wear out, but what is there to say? They kept carrots in the cellar, though rarely ate them.
My sister used to say that carrots were the devil’s sputum, congealed into stalactites of concentrated evil. She said the bigger a carrot was, the worse the devil had suffered from his earthly allergies. The devil, of course, is allergic to the carrots themselves, which creates a sort of circular paradox my sister preferred not to discuss.
I was raised by rabbits who taught me to burrow and build homes for hiding. Rabbits love carrots, but not as much as they are famous for. Rabbits are like carrots in that they hide their best selves beneath the ground. They are unlike carrots in that they do a much better job of hiding. Like carrots, they are crunchy when eaten raw, but unlike carrots, their taste improves with cooking. It is a sin, I’m told, to eat your family, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Plot point: I am a carrot.
Conclusion and moral – in rhyme:
Carrots may seem good to eat
But they are not a tasty treat.
If you wish to save yourself
Remove those carrots from your shelf