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Wednesday, June 13


I love carrots. I love the way they look. I love the way they feel. I love the color they are when up against the black surface of a pan. I love the way they crunch when bitten into. I love the way they smell when sliced for that special dessert Grandma used to make years ago. I love the way the sunlight shines on them when they are heaped onto a dining table, freshly pulled from the ground. I love the way they taste immediately after they are run under a leaky faucet, the juice melding with the cold water from the tap. I love the feeling of uprooting one from the soil, as it slowly lets go of its earthy home and falls into waiting arms.

Actually, I made that last one up. I don't think I've ever pulled a carrot from the ground before. If I have, I don't remember. But I'm sure, if given the opportunity, I would love that feeling. I really feel I would. It would adequately complete this thought process of mine. The one that's telling me: I love carrots.

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