(I have no idea why I wrote this)
My unassuming vegetable of long, orange, loveliness.
The base of my stock, the bejeweled foundation of my ragu, the subtle, velvety note in my stew and dumplings.
Throughout your time with us, you have served us silently, stoically. You give. You rarely take. If only the world was full of more like you.
I plant you: you grow. I don’t water you: you still grow. I don’t grow enough of you: you are only 65p a bag in Lidl.
You juice well, blend well, crunch delectably. Hell, you even make cakes taste good.
Sometimes, when I find you neglected, twisted and blackened at the back of the cupboard, the guilt of your wasted beauty engulfs me. And sometimes, even you, with you warm autumnal hue, must find it hard to dazzle next to Aubergine and Fennel and Pak Choi. But I see you there, strong, silent, reliable. Useful.
That ill-fated rendezvous you had with mashed turnip was forgotten the moment that you presented yourself to me glossy, al dente, wrapped in your glistening honey coat. How we tittered carrot – as if you aren’t already sweet enough.
Oh carrot. It must be hard when you see the kids favour the peas, those small-brained frozen skinheads (the peas, not the kids). But I see the children grow, and as they put the misery of those tasteless purees behind them, they rediscover you. They will soon embrace you too, frozen, or boiled, steamed or as crudités, or as humble soup: sumptuous and glorious, coating their bread roll with your thyme-infused warmth.
Until that day, carrot, I just wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for always being there. For tasting good. For being you.