EGGPLANT BABY FINDS HIS DAD

Eggplant Baby sat sadly on the kitchen counter, waiting patiently to be turned into huckleberry stew. A single tear rolled down his chubby purple cheeks, and plonked onto the head of a knarled carrot who sat next to him. 

“Hey!” said the carrot angrily, glancing up at Eggplant Baby. “Watch it!”

Eggplant Baby glanced down at the carrot. “Oh— I’m — I’m so sorry” he said, embarassed. “I — I didn’t—” he wiped his eyes with a trembling hand. “I’m sorry — sir.”

The carrot grunted. “It’s fine.”

Eggplant Baby nodded silently and bowed his head. Another tremor racked his body as he took a deep, shuddering breath.

The carrot cast an eye up at the eggplant and grunted again. “Look kid, I know it ain’t pretty. But as deaths go, stew is probably one of the best. My cousin Eddie got halfway boiled back in June — said the first few seconds suck, but then you can’t feel a thing.” 

Eggplant Baby swallowed nervously. “And he’s — he’s okay now?”

The carrot shook his leafy head plume. “Nah — they got him for leftovers. Hummus-dip, I think.”

Eggplant Baby let out a shaky sigh and stared down at the granite countertop. Less than one week ago, he had been swinging happily from his stalk in the vegetable patch, enjoying the late summer sun, and waiting for Mr. Samuelson to walk by and sprinkle him with water. Then the dreaded call went up across the patch: harvest time.

Of course, the older, wiser eggplants knew that soon their time would be up. They were long, plump, and ready for harvest — but at least they could rest easy; knowing that they had lived several long, happy months in Mr. Samuelson’s Organic Veggie Oasis.

But on that fateful day, the cries of sobbing mothers began to ring out across the patch, and soon word reached Eggplant Baby and his father that the most horrible, most rare occurance was indeed upon them. Today, Mr. Samuelson was harvesting baby eggplant. 

Before he could even say goodbye, Eggplant Baby was ripped from his stalk, and tossed into a wooden crate with a hundred other terrified eggplant-babies, who hadn’t expected to leave home for at least another month, even two!

And thus, the long, prosperous life which Eggplant Baby had been promised disintegrated to the creaking groan of the wooden crate, and the roar of a truck engine.

* * *

Eggplant Baby heard a loud snort of laughter behind him. He turned and peered over his shoulder. A group of several older ingredients sat in a ring around an overturned box of chicken-stock, playing a raucous game of cards.

The knarled carrot looked sidelong at Eggplant Baby and sighed. 

“Come on kid” he said, nudging Eggplant Baby with his tip. “I’ll introduce you. Might as well socialize a bit.”

Eggplant Baby looked down at the carrot in surprise. “Oh — th-that’s okay. I— I’m fine here.”

The carrot grunted. “Listen. We’ve got about twenty minutes before we’re all simmering in that box of stock over yonder. So you can either sit here by yourself and mope, or you can come meet a few people and maybe learn a thing or two. Your choice.”

The carrot began to roll towards the group of ingredients. Eggplant Baby sighed and looked out across the empty kitchen. He thought again of his quiet green vegetable patch, and wondered if at that moment, his father was counting the dew drops on Susie Spider’s web, as they had done together every morning since Eggplant Baby’s mother had been harvested.

“Dew is God’s silver,” his father would say. “It sparkles like diamonds — but even gemstones can’t make things grow.”

Eggplant Baby blinked back another wave of tears. He turned his head and let out a watery cough, glancing sidelong at the rolling carrot, who had almost reached the other ingredients. Eggplant Baby heard a loud spurt of laughter from the card-circle. He looked down glumly at his purple stomach, then turned back towards the group.

“Hey — hey!” he called timidly to the lumpy carrot. “I— wait for me!” 

Eggplant Baby turned himself sideways and rolled after the carrot, catching up with him just as the lumpy veggie reached the edge of the card circle. The carrot glanced sideways at Eggplant Baby, then turned and nodded to the rest of the ingredients. He was greeted with several nods and a few murmured greetings. A second, even lumpier yellow carrot put down his cards and waggled his head-plume at the new arrivals.

“Davey! You old bastard, how the hell are you? I thought they got you in that carrot-cake last week!”

Davey chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, I pushed the Dewby twins in front of me. Told them that it was ‘just a washing’. Idiots.” He snorted.

An old sour lime stared suspiciously at Eggplant Baby. “Who’s the youngsprout?” he asked with a frown. The other ingredients turned to look at Eggplant Baby, who blushed and tried to look friendly.

“Awwwww you are just so CUTE!” giggled a group of cherries, fluttering their eyelashes.

“Looks like someone got harvested early” laughed a bruised banana. “I bet his stalk is still green.” The sour lime grinned sourly and snickered.

“Now now” said the yellow carrot. “Let’s not sully the stew with all that talk. He’s as welcome as the rest of us to sit and catch some rest.”

“He sure is” said a large, plump potato — casting a scolding look at the other ingredients. She turned to Eggplant Baby. “Honey, don’t you worry now. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Tell that to the Dewby twins” muttered the banana.

The yellow carrot snorted. 

Eggplant Baby cast a furtive glance at Davey, who rolled over to the box of stock and plonked himself down. The yellow carrot wordlessly delt him in. Davey turned and looked at Eggplant Baby. “Well? You gonna play or what?”

Eggplant Baby gulped and shimmied forward towards the table. He found a spot between Davey and the sour lime — who grunted in annoyance before rolling to make room. The yellow carrot passed Eggplant Baby a set of cards.

“So” the carrot said. “What’s your name youngster?”

Eggplant Baby stared at the cards, trying to make sense of the strange numbers and symbols. “Eggplant Baby” he said quietly.

The bruised banana snorted. “No kid, what’s your name?”

Eggplant Baby blinked in confusion. “Umm… it’s….it’s Eggplant Baby…. I—”

He looked around nervously.

The bruised banana laughed loudly. “That’s what you are you toucan. A baby eggplant. But what’s your name? Like what do people call you?”

Eggplant Baby swallowed. “I— I thought your name is what you are” he said timidly. 

Several of the cherries cooed at him. “Oh my god. That is adorable.”

The sour lime grunted. “Are you gonna go?” he said angrily, shooting Eggplant Baby another sour look. Eggplant Baby gulped and stared down at the cards. He picked the two fanciest looking ones and plunked them down on the table, smiling nervously up at the others.

The sour lime stared at the cards and growled. 

The yellow carrot laughed. “Two kings. Not bad for a veggie with no name.”

The bruised banana chortled and nodded at the lime. “Yeah, hey Bruce, maybe you should ask him for lessons.”

The sour lime cursed loudly and tossed his cards on the table. Eggplant Baby swallowed and edged towards Davey. 

Near the edge of the circle, the plump potato pulled out a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. She began to knit — the needles clacking softly as the yellow carrot dealt a second hand.

Eggplant Baby picked up his cards and looked around the circle. He swallowed and took a deep breath.

“So” he said quietly. “Where— where are you all from? I mean — how did you get here?”

Davey retrieved his cards and tossed three more on the table. He said nothing.

“I ran here” said the bruised banana, staring straight-faced at Eggplant Baby. “From Florida. Took me about ten years. But I figured getting chopped and eaten was worth the trip.”

The yellow carrot shook his head.

“What does it matter where we’re from?” said the sour lime, shooting Eggplant Baby an angry look. “We’re here now. And not for too long neither.” He threw a card down on the table.

Eggplant Baby bowed his head. “I— I don’t know” he said. “I guess—” he swallowed — “I’m sorry — you’re right.” He looked down at his cards. The circle grew quiet.

“Okay, okay” said the yellow carrot, breaking the silence. “No need for us to wilt our whiskers.” 

He turned to Eggplant Baby. “I’m from Halifax” he said. “River Creek Farms. Farmer’s name was Delroy… no wait it was Delfont. Something with a ‘D’.” He shrugged. “Anyway— sprouted last October. Had the misfortune to be planted next to this grassroot—” he nodded at Davey with a grin. 

“Oh, is that right?” said Davey, eyeing the yellow carrot over the top of his cards. “As I recall, you were the one hogging all the sunlight, what with that weed you call a head-plume.”

The yellow carrot narrowed his eyes. “Weed?? I don’t remember you complaining when I used it to scare away those mad rabbits.”

Davey snorted. “Yeah, you scared them alright.” He waggled his head-plume and opened his eyes wide. “Mommy! Mommy! Help us! Please God help us!” 

The bruised banana roared with laughter.

“Well at least I did something” the yellow carrot snarled. “You just sat there snipping with your stem up your—”

“Hey!” shouted the plump potato, smacking the yellow carrot on the back of the head with a half-knitted scarf. “I don’t want to hear any more of that dirt-talk around the child. He’s got plenty on his mind without adding your foul language to the mix.”

The yellow carrot shrugged and looked down at his cards. The potato resumed her knitting.

Eggplant Baby, who had been quite enjoying the display, sagged slightly in disappointment.

“So — how did you both end up here?” he asked furtively, hoping to rekindle the discussion. 

The yellow carrot looked up at him. “What? Oh —” he glanced back at the potato, then turned to look at Davey. 

“Well, you know — classic story, really. I met a beautiful young carrot sprout named Marmeline.”

“My sister” Davey said bluntly. 

“Well it was better me than one of those other half-grown snub-roots!” the yellow carrot spouted indignantly.

The potato cleared her throat loudly. 

The yellow carrot bit his lip. He put two cards on the table — a queen and a king.

“She was the love of my life” he sighed, staring down at the cards. “Sprite as a spring stalk, and always had something clever to say. And she had the firmest roots I’ve ever—”

“Oh come on!” Davey groaned. “That’s my sister for chrissake!”

“Sorry” the yellow carrot said, winking at Eggplant Baby, who shook his head uncomfortably.

“Where is she now?” asked one of the cherries with interest.

“Where do you think?” Davey said abruptly. “She got harvested. Is that what you want to know?”

The cherry quailed. The yellow carrot nodded sadly. 

“Yep. November harvest. Delroy took her away like she was a common beet. The cold bastard…” He sighed and looked at Eggplant Baby. “Listen kid — you’re lucky you never had to go through that. Trust me. Love — it ain’t worth it.”

Davey nodded dully — staring down at the box-table with a faraway look. 

“Go already!” growled the sour lime, bumping Eggplant Baby none-too-gently with his rind. 

“Sorry!” yelped Eggplant Baby, dropping three cards hastily onto the table. 

The sour lime snarled.

“Well I’ll be damned” said the yellow carrot. “Three threes. The kid’s a natural.”

Eggplant Baby blushed. “It’s — it’s nothing” he said. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, we know” said the sour lime coldly.

The potato’s knitting needles clacked from behind the yellow carrot. “Oh hush Bruce” she said. “Give it a rest. We’re all going to be one happy family before long.” She sighed and kept knitting. 

“Oh stop with that ‘one happy family crap’ ” Bruce said angrily. “That cook’s gonna skin us, chop us, and boil us alive. And if you think I’m going to sit here and call it a—”

In the blink of an eye, Davey reached across Eggplant Baby and grabbed the lime by the arm. He twisted sharply, causing the lime to howl in pain. 

“That’s enough” Davey growled menacingly.

The yellow carrot jumped up and tried to pull Davey off the lime. After much cursing and kicking, Davey let go, and sat back down — keeping his eyes fixed on the lime. 

“You okay Bruce?” asked the yellow carrot, putting a hand on the lime’s shoulder. 

“Get your hands off me!” Bruce snarled. He threw down his cards and turned away from the card circle, rolling off towards the counter’s edge.

The yellow carrot shook his head and sat back down. The circle fell silent — the only sounds that could be heard were Eggplant Baby’s soft sniffles, and small, shuddering breaths, as he tried to calm his nerves after the sudden violence.

Several uncomfortable seconds passed. Then a tiny voice rang out across the circle.

“Hey — Eggplant Baby. I’ll tell you my story, if you want.”

Eggplant Baby stopped sniffling and looked around, surprised at being addressed directly. 

His eyes fell on one of the cherries — a tiny plump thing with rosy red cheeks. 

“Oh — h-hello” he stammered. “I — of… of course you can tell me. I mean — I would love to hear your… your story.” He swallowed and gave her a shaky smile. 

The tiny cherry beamed. 

“Well, my name is Patrice” she said matter-of-factly. “And I come from Pennsylvania. One hundred percent organic.”

She looked back at the rest of her cherry-companions, who hooted and flashed the “O” symbol with their fingers. 

“Show offs” the bruised banana muttered under his breath. 

Eggplant Baby couldn’t help but smile at the bunch of cheering cherries, and he soon felt his upset at the violent confrontation begin to fade.

Patrice gave an excited shimmy and continued her story. “We’ve been a bunch ever since we sprouted” she gestured back at the rest of the cherries. “That’s Jenny, Jessie, Jezabel and Jacy—” (she pointed at four identical looking cherries, each with identically perfect rosy stems) — “And that’s Mindy, Cindy, Cyprus, Angie, Angel, Basil, Bopkin, and Toothy.”

Eggplant Baby followed Patrice’s gaze down a long line of smiling female cherries of different sizes, until he reached two slightly sagging male cherries at the end of the line: one with a large potbelly and the other with a jagged piece of pit poking through his skin. 

Patrice nuzzled up to the two grumpy looking cherries and flashed them a cherubic grin. 

“Bopkin and Toothy just love hanging out with us girls, don’t you?”

Bopkin shook his head and cast Eggplant Baby a pleading look. “Seven months” he mouthed silently.

Toothy started swinging his body back and forth, attempting in vain to sever his stem with his pit-tooth, and free himself from the bunch.

Eggplant Baby let out a loud belly laugh. Even Davey and the yellow carrot grinned and chuckled, shaking their heads.

Patrice looked back at the group and smiled. “Yep, we’ve been through thick and thin — got picked and taken all the way down the California coast. Met lots of cool folks along the way.”

“Like that dreamy cucumber” said one cherry, batting her eyelashes.

“Oh can it Cindy” said another cherry, rolling her eyes. “He wasn’t even into you.”

“Was too!” the first cherry squeaked. “Said he was going to take me to Paris to get cooked together. It would’ve been so romantic” she sighed longingly.

Patrice giggled and shook her head. She turned to Eggplant Baby. “Yep! We’ve been sisters our whole lives. Well — except for Bopkin and Toothy—” she glanced affectionately at the last two cherries.

“Kill me” Bopkin mouthed at Eggplant Baby. Toothy swung in furious circles but was still unable to cut his own stem.

Patrice giggled and patted them on their heads. She looked back at Eggplant Baby.

“It probably doesn’t sound too exciting” she shrugged, “But having a big family was a lot of fun. But I’m sure you have a family too — right?”

Eggplant Baby bit his lip. I guess I had a family he thought. Ever since he could remember, it was just him, his grandparents, and his dad. But he never had any siblings — or even a close friend for that matter. And his grandparents never did anything but nap in the sun, or bemoan the cold weather, and how it splintered their stalks. Eggplant Baby felt suddenly sad as he looked at the bunch of laughing cherries — who had lived their whole lives with a group of ready-made friends, and playmates.

After several seconds of silence, Eggplant Baby spoke.

“I had my dad” he said quietly. “He was going to harvested soon, but they took me first.” Then, even more quietly, he added— “I miss him.”

Patrice gave him a sad look.

“I miss my bunch” another voice said wistfully. Eggplant Baby looked across the box-table, and was surprised to see the bruised banana — looking a little less yellow and a little more bruised. 

“You had a big family too?” said Patrice, eyes wide.

The banana nodded. “Kind of” he said. He let out a low sigh. “They were my bros.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then a broad grin flashed suddenly across his face.

“The Tone Squad” he said. “That’s what we called ourselves.” He chuckled and shook his head. 

“The Tone Squad?” asked the yellow carrot, raising an eyebrow. 

The banana laughed again. “Yeah. My friend Banny came up with it. We heard about this banana from Brazil — someplace like that — who decided that he would never be picked. Just like that. He spent all day soaking up as much sun as he could, drinking all the water from his tree, and just swinging back and forth, building up his stem strength. You know — getting ready for the pickers to come take a crack at him.”

Eggplant Baby’s eyes grew wide. “Did he do it?” he asked excitedly. “Did he keep himself from being picked?”

The banana grinned at him, but didn’t respond. He turned back to the group. “So one day, the pickers come with their big ladders and their tools, and they go to pick Tony.”

“Tony?” said Davey skeptically.

“Oh yeah — the banana’s name was Tony” said the banana. 

Davey rolled his eyes. 

“So then what happened?” asked Patrice, swinging excitedly from her stem.

The banana smiled broadly, clearly enjoying the attention. “So they go to pick Tony, and they’re about to reach up and pluck him from the tree, when a giant eagle swoops down, grabs him, and just flies off.”

The group stared at him blankly.

“So — he did get picked?” asked the yellow carrot, scratching his head. 

The banana shook his head. “No. Well, not really — but it wasn’t about that. You see, eagles don’t eat bananas. The eagle freed him. Took him way up in the sky, never to be eaten or picked. Some say they stayed friends — traveled the world. I don’t know.” The banana shrugged. 

“Wait” said Davey with exasperation. “Then why did you call your bunch ‘the Tone Squad’ ?”

The banana looked at him. “What? Oh — you know because the banana’s name was Tony. Tone, Tony — get it?”

Davey put his hands to his temples and grumbled. 

Patrice giggled. “An eagle? Friends with a banana? No way José.”

The banana chuckled. “Yeah, well — we all wanted to be like Tony. Do something crazy like that. So Banny came up with the name, and we would just like hang out together every day — dreaming about all the things we would do when we made it out of the grove.”

He sighed, and stared down at the table for several seconds, eyes glassy. He shook himself and looked up. “Anyway — we didn’t make it out, obviously. But damn — we had a good run. The rest of the guys got eaten — I’m the only one left” he swallowed and nodded down at his side. “You know — because of the bruise.”

Eggplant Baby nodded to himself in silent thought — images of eagles, bananas, and far-off jungles rippling through his mind. His eyes drifted up towards the kitchen window, where the sparse rays of winter sun filtered in and touched upon the granite countertops.

He closed his eyes, and for a second, he felt like he was back in the patch again. Then a loud CLUNK shook him from his trance, and his eyes flicked open. A plump woman stood in front of the sink, filling a large, black pot with water. After several seconds, she turned off the water, set the pot on the stove, and turned one of the dials — humming softly to herself as she looked down at her watch. Finally she turned, and left the room.

Eggplant Baby stared at the enormous black pot sitting on the stove. The sight filled him with cold dread. He turned back to the group and glanced nervously around.

“Looks like the hot tub’s heatin’ up” the banana said — yielding several sparse chuckles.

But the laughter faded quickly — and Eggplant Baby saw the banana’s skin turn pale when he thought no one was looking. 

In the corner, the potato’s knitting needles clacked louder and louder, while the cherries whispered nervously to each other — their frayed speech mixed with increasingly anxious glances at the heating stovetop. 

Only the two carrots remained unfazed: Davey stared stonily down at the table while the yellow carrot stacked the playing cards — humming with a calm mien.

 Wisps of steam soon began to drift over the countertop, as the sound of bubbling water filled the air. After several seconds of foggy stillness, the potato’s knitting needles stopped clicking, and she stood up — grumbling as she rubbed her lower back.

“Okay, okay” she said, approaching the card circle. “Let’s not turn blue over a bit of hot water.” She nodded at Davey. “David — deal the cards.”

Davey muttered something under his breath, but took the cards from where they sat stacked on the table, and began to shuffle them.

The potato turned to the yellow carrot. “Marcus — you got anything to drink?”

The yellow carrot grinned and shot Eggplant Baby a sly wink. “Yes marm.” He reached under the table and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, along with several paper cups. 

The potato uncorked the bottle and filled the cups, handing one to Davey, one to the banana, and one to the yellow carrot. She then filled a fourth cup, and, to everyone’s surprise, held it out to Eggplant Baby — who politely declined. The potato nodded and muttered, “for the best, no doubt,” as she took the cup for herself, and took a long, generous drink.

“That’s better” she said, smacking her lips as she sat down and nodded at Davey, who began to deal.

“So” said the banana, wrinkling his nose as he sipped from the paper cup — “What kind of departing wisdom can we expect from a sweet old house-potato?”

“Not much” snorted the potato, picking up her cards. “Married the wrong spud. Had nine children — some sweet, some starchy. Raised them best I could — though Lord knows it wasn’t enough. Got harvested along with my no-good husband back in early December. And to tell you the truth — it couldn’t come soon enough.”

She shook her head and took another sip of whiskey.

The banana picked up his cards and frowned. “Come on. There’s got to be something you learned. Or something you did.” He nodded at Eggplant Baby. “Look at the little blighter. Least you could do is give him a taste of the tater life.”

Eggplant Baby’s face turned red. “Oh — that’s — that’s alright Mrs. Potato. You don’t need to —”

“Call me Deborah dear” the potato smiled. She glanced at the banana, who stared at her with an expectant smirk.

The potato rolled her eyes. “Oh alright, I guess I have one or two tidbits. But don’t you sauerkrauts go telling the whole spice rack, you hear? I’m not going to my grave with my ears  burning from some nosy nutmeg.”

The banana raised his hands in mock protest. “I would never.”

The potato eyed him suspiciously and placed two cards on the table. She turned and looked at Eggplant Baby. 

“Well, one night — it was Easter-eve, if I remember correctly, almost nine months ago…”

She turned to the other ingredients. “I was just a youngster then — barely a root between my ears, if you take my meaning. And less sense in my stem than a star-dazed sparrow.”

The yellow carrot nodded knowingly.

The potato turned back to Eggplant Baby. “So I’m sitting there, growing in the dirt and chatting with my sister Patty, as we did most every night back then. She was root-tip-red for this yam named Robert. Handsome spud, but dumb as a dandelion. Anyway, she’s rattling on about how tall his stem is growing, and how thick his tubers are, when suddenly I hear a noise.”

She reached down and took another sip of whiskey. 

“Your turn” Davey muttered to Eggplant Baby, elbowing him lightly. Eggplant Baby quickly placed two cards on the table and looked eagerly back up at Mrs. Potato. She smacked her lips and continued. 

“It was a noise like I had never heard in my whole life. A horrible squelching sound. Scared me half to death, so it did.”

“Squelching?” asked the yellow carrot, raising an eyebrow.

Mrs. Potato nodded. “Squelching and rolling — like something was creeping across the patch. Something big.”

Eggplant Baby felt his heart speed up. “What was it?” he asked excitedly, unable to help himself. Near the corner of the table, the cherries had stopped whispering amongst themselves, and were now staring at the potato with a mixture of horror and anticipation.

Mrs. Potato shook her head.

“We didn’t know” she said. “So we peeked out our stems and looked across the patch. But it was empty. Not a loose veggie or sniffing fox to be seen. And still, the squelching noise got louder and louder. Poor Patty thought we were about to be trampled by some unsightly creature.”

Davey placed his cards on the table. The banana shouted triumphantly, revealing his last three cards. “Finally! A win for the Tone Squad.”

Mrs. Potato glared at him. “Sorry” the banana said quickly, still grinning as he swept the cards from the table. 

The potato muttered something, and refilled her cup. 

“Well, anyway” she said, “a few more minutes go by, until the sound is so loud I can feel the dirt tumblin’ about my ears. Then, in the corner of the patch, we see a giant white pumpkin roll in.”

“A pumpkin?” Davey asked, sounding none too impressed. 

“She said it was white” shrugged the yellow carrot. “I guess that’s kind of interesting.”

“I guess anything’s better than being yellow” Davey responded with a snort. 

“I take offense to that” said the banana, holding his cup out to Mrs. Potato for a refill.

The yellow carrot folded his arms and glared at Davey. “Yeah, well you know what they say. There’s nothing worse than a lumpy, grudge-holding carrot with the imagination of a june-bug and the fashion sense of an earthworm.”

Davey stood up. “Oh yeah? How about a no-good, sister-stealing, bug-breathing, over-ripened cauliflower with too much hair on his—”

“SHUT IT!” yelled Mrs. Potato, slamming her cup down on the table.

“Keep going” the banana whispered, leaning in towards Davey, who scowled fiercely at the yellow carrot. 

Mrs. Potato slapped the banana on his bruise. 

“Owww!” he whined. “Okay! Fine!”

Mrs. Potato turned back to the table.

“What I was about to say” she said, “before you rust-roots started jaw-wagging, was that the pumpkin wasn’t white.”

“But you just said it was white” the banana said, still rubbing his bruise. 

Mrs. Potato shook her head. “No. We only thought it was — at first. But as it got closer to our stems, we saw that it wasn’t. Not really. It was more like — glowing.”

Eggplant Baby breathed in sharply. The banana fell silent, and even Davey and Marcus stopped glaring at each other and looked at the potato in surprise.

“Glowing?” Davey said, sitting back down.

Mrs. Potato nodded. “It was shining — like there was fog around it, ‘cept the fog was coming off the skin. And the light from it — lit up the whole vegetable patch. Patty almost jumped out of her stalk, so she did.”

The back of Eggplant Baby’s neck prickled.

“W-what h-happened t-then?” chattered one of the cherries, her eyes wide with fear.

Mrs. Potato pursed her lips. “Well, nothing at first. It just sat there at the edge of the patch, glowing.”

The cherry breathed out, looking relieved. Eggplant Baby sighed. 

“But then” Mrs. Potato said— “the strangest thing happened.”

“You mean stranger than a glowing ghost pumpkin?” Davey said, now looking skeptical about the whole affair. 

Mrs. Potato nodded, but her eyes seemed faraway, and her brow was scrunched, as if she was trying to work out the answer to some complex riddle. She shook her head gently.

“I just don’t know….” she muttered softly.

“What happened?” the banana asked seriously. 

Mrs. Potato looked up. “What? Oh — yes, sorry. Well, we were looking at the pumpkin — glowing and all — when a light pops up next to it. Looked like a little, glowing blueberry, so it did. ‘Cept it was yellow. Or gold, more like.”

At this, the banana scoffed and shook his head. “A glowing blueberry? Let me guess what happened next: you got attacked by a zombie…..PLUM!!”

He flashed his eyes wide and bared his teeth in a macabre grimace, nearly giving Eggplant Baby a heart-attack, and causing several of the cherries to shriek and faint. 

Mrs. Potato didn’t seem to notice. She kept staring down at the table, biting her lip. 

“I really thought I was seeing things” she said, speaking more to herself than to the others.  “Patty was plum scared, she was. Then another light popped up. Then another.”

The banana stopped flapping his tongue at the cherries and sank back into his seat. He gave Mrs. Potato an uneasy look.

“Pretty soon” she said, “there’s about twenty of them — different colors. All spinning around the pumpkin. Almost like they were dancing.”

Eggplant Baby looked across the table at Marcus, who had remained silent throughout the tale. His brow was furrowed, and he too looked deep in thought.

Eggplant Baby swallowed. “What — what were they doing?” he said in a quiet voice. “The lights?”

Mrs. Potato looked up and stared at him. She smiled, a strange light in her eyes. “They were talking” she said. “I think they were talking to each other. Every once in a while, one of the lights would send out a spark. Like a little buzz from its center. And the pumpkin would catch it, and glow a little. Then it would send a spark back out, and another light would buzz forward, and catch it.”

As she spoke, the potato’s face seemed to change and shift in front of Eggplant Baby’s eyes, until she no longer resembled the motherly yam who had first begun talking. It was as if the years had melted off her, and she was suddenly a young tater again — telling them all about her favorite rubbing-rock, or describing a particularly boisterous worm.

Eggplant Baby stared at her in wonder.

Then a loud coughing sound broke over the group. Eggplant Baby turned and saw the sour-lime rolling grumpily back towards the stock-box. He plunked himself down and nodded morosely at the stovetop. 

“Water’s boiling” he said matter-of-factly. He looked around the group, eyes settling on Mrs. Potato. “What’s wrong with her?” he said gruffly.

Mrs. Potato blinked, and the light faded from her eyes. She looked around the group, and her face turned red. “Oh —” she said awkwardly. “Well, I — well, anyway. That’s enough of that.” She smoothed her apron with two hands.

“What?” said the banana loudly. “Wait, what happened to the lights? And the pumpkin? You said—”

Mrs. Potato frowned, looking very uncomfortable. She glanced at the lime, and then turned to the banana. “They left” she said softly, a hint of sadness in her voice. “The pumpkin rolled off, and the lights followed it. Never saw them again.”

“Oh” the banana said. He bit his lip and looked down at the table, all laughter gone from his face.

Eggplant Baby felt a deep sadness well up inside him. He suddenly wanted to get as far away from the circle as possible. Without a word, he turned and rolled away from the stock-box — out towards the edge of the counter, where he came to rest next to a worn, wooden cutting board. On the lip of the cutting board sat a steel knife with a black handle — the knife’s polished blade reflected a dot of fading sunlight from the kitchen window. The wind whistled outside, and Eggplant Baby felt a chill settle in his purple skin.

He found himself thinking about his mother. He could barely remember her face — she was harvested when he was barely a sprout. But he could remember her soft, silken skin, and the loving touch of her body as it brushed against his in the swinging wind. He thought about the glowing pumpkin, and he hoped silently that his mother was out there somewhere, in a vegetable patch made of light — singing softly to a garden of golden bees.

Eggplant Baby heard a loud grating sound behind him. He turned to see the plump woman, looming over the stovetop, pot-lid in hand. She reached down absently towards the circle of ingredients, fingers questing for an item. The ingredients shouted and jumped out of the way as the giant fingers probed and settled on the box of stock in the center of the circle. She picked it up, opened it, and poured it into the sizzling black pot. A loud hissssss sounded throughout the kitchen as she stirred the stock into the boiling water with a slotted wooden spoon. After a few minutes, she nodded in satisfaction, and replaced the pot lid — humming to herself as she stepped back and left the kitchen.

Eggplant Baby eyed the pot, and a dull feeling of fate settled in his gut. He knew somehow that it wouldn’t be long before the cook returned, and added the rest of the ingredients to the steaming pot, one by one.

“Oi!” shouted a voice. 

Eggplant Baby turned and saw the banana waving to him. 

“EB — get over here! You gotta see this.”

“Leave him be” said another voice, which Eggplant Baby recognized to be Davey’s. 

Eggplant Baby bowed his head and looked back down at the countertop.

It’s over he thought to himself, with a sense of finality. All of the other ingredients had lived full lives. Sure, some of them suffered misfortune. They had all been harvested. But at least they had done something. Marcus fell in love, Mrs. Potato got married. The cherries lived their whole lives with a vibrant family of close-knit siblings. Even the banana had the Tone Squad. And Davey, despite his brusque demeanor, seemed to have seen more than any of them — though his memories remained hidden behind his eyes. Only Eggplant Baby had yet to venture out into the world — yet to fully ripen with age and experience. 

Images flashed before his eyes, and he saw visions of adventures squandered, loves lost, and dazzling landscapes which he would never see. He felt a deep ache settle in his stomach.

“EB!” the banana shouted again. “Come here!”

Eggplant Baby clenched his gut and turned towards the noise. The banana and several other of the ingredients stood in front of a tall, open book which towered over the countertop, propped on a small wooden wedge.

The banana called and waved again, his skinny arm flopping back and forth. Eggplant Baby frowned. Couldn’t they just leave him alone? He didn’t want to learn anything more — not about their pasts, not about this world. He just wanted the day to be over. His eyes drifted towards the steaming black pot. 

He felt an arm shaking him. He looked down to see Patrice’s chubby face staring up at him — her newly-clipped stem bobbing in front of her face. 

“Eggplant Baby!” she said. “Please — you need to come see!”

Eggplant Baby shook his head. “I — I can’t” he said flatly. “Whatever it is — I…” He shook his head.

The cherry rolled forward and bumped against Eggplant Baby’s stomach. She stared at him with large, earnest eyes.

“You have to!” she said. “Please —  there’s going to be another eggplant!”

Eggplant Baby blinked. “W-what?” he said. “How — how do you know that?”

The cherry smiled. “The recipe silly! That cook left it out! I can’t read it, but Davey knows how.”

Eggplant Baby felt his heart stir with excitement. 

Patrice beckoned him with a tiny hand, and he followed her towards the massive volume. As they got closer, he heard the sound of whispered voices.

“Am I getting diced? Am I getting diced?” asked the banana, hopping anxiously towards the open book.

“Would you shut up?” said an annoyed looking Davey, studying the book through a pair of battered reading glasses.

Unperturbed, the banana continued hopping, bobbing nervously from one foot to the other. 

“Please don’t let it be diced” he said, clasping his hands and staring up at the ceiling. “Peeled — I can handle. Sliced — well, I’d prefer not to. But diced?” he shuddered and kept hopping.

Marcus peered over Davey’s shoulder, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. “Is that a P or a Q?” he asked Davey, pointing at the recipe.

Davey followed Marcus’ finger, then turned to stare at the yellow carrot.

“It’s an H you mushroom. As in Huckleberry stew?”

Marcus tilted his head. “Oh. Right.”

“Wait, why are there no huckleberries if this is huckleberry stew?” asked Mrs. Potato, a worried look on her face.

“Must be a French recipe” said the banana, scratching his peel.

“It’s not French” Davey said tautly. “It calls for huckleberries right here” he jabbed his finger at the page. “She must’ve decided to substitute them with cherri—”

He stopped talking as he saw Patrice and Eggplant Baby approaching.

The banana let out a whoop. “EB! Looks like you’re gonna have some company!” he nodded at the recipe. “Tell him Dave.”

Davey muttered something under his breath. He turned to Eggplant Baby. “Recipe calls for two eggplant — one small, one large. She probably went to get another one.”

Eggplant Baby swallowed.

“What if it’s your dad?” the banana said. “I mean — it would be a bummer. But at least you could say ‘what’s up’ before you—”

Davey grabbed the banana by the shoulders. “Hey. Don’t go putting fool ideas in his head.”

The banana put his hands up and stepped back. “Hey — it’s cool. I’m just saying — he said he missed his dad.”

Eggplant Baby felt the rest of the ingredients’ eyes on him. He stared up at the recipe book. 

What if it is him? He thought to himself. The idea seemed ridiculous. Eggplant Baby had been harvested with hundreds of other eggplants. The odds of his dad making it to the same store — and the same house — were extremely slim. But Dad was due to be harvested any day…

Eggplant Baby sniffed suddenly, and felt a tear slide down his face. He would give anything — anything — to see his dad one last time.

He felt a tiny hand squeeze his elbow. He looked down and saw Patrice’s tiny outline shimmering through his watery eyes. 

“Don’t worry Eggplant Baby!” she said, rubbing his arm. “It’s okay — it’s going to be okay.”

He felt another arm on his shoulder. He turned and saw the banana, looking guiltily at him with yellow eyes. “Yeah dog. Didn’t mean to make you cry. That’s my bad.”

Eggplant Baby nodded, and sniffed, unable to speak.

Footsteps sounded from an adjacent room. 

“She’s coming back!” chirped one of the cherries. 

The ingredients braced themselves.

“This could be it” muttered Marcus. He handed the near-empty bottle of whiskey to Davey, who took a firm swig.

Eggplant Baby wiped the tears quickly from his eyes. The cook approached the counter — a brown paper bag held in her left hand. As the cook turned, a bright blue sticker on the side of the bag caught the kitchen light. Two overlapping circles emblazoned the sticker — their bends framing a utopic green field. And below the logo, Eggplant Baby saw the only three words which he had ever learned how to read.

“Organic Veggie Oasis.”

Home.

Eggplant Baby’s breathing quickened. Could it be? His father was due to be harvested any day now. Maybe he got picked in the next batch?

Maybe he was bought right after me! Eggplant Baby thought excitedly. The prospect of boiling suddenly didn’t seem so scary.

The cook placed the paper bag on the counter and reached inside. She removed some sprigs of parsley, a few stalks of celery, and an apple, and began washing them in the sink.

Eggplant Baby’s shoulders sagged.

Then the cook reached into the bag again, and removed an eggplant. 

It was too far away for Eggplant Baby to see the eggplant’s face, but he felt suddenly dizzy. It’s him he thought to himself. It has to be. 

To his right, the pot sizzled and hissed, and the fumes from the boiling stock washed down over the ingredients. Eggplant Baby’s eyes watered from the heat, but he kept them fixed on the eggplant as the cook rinsed it carefully with cold water.

Finally, when Eggplant Baby thought he could bear it no longer, the cook brought the eggplant over, and placed it next to the other ingredients. 

The eggplant shook itself from the remaining drops of water, and turned towards the group. Eggplant Baby’s heart fell. It’s not him.

The eggplant was tall, and looked to be the same age as his father, but he was too slender, and his stem-cap was angled slightly to the left. As the eggplant approached the group, Eggplant Baby cast his eyes down towards the ground, unable to meet the newcomer’s gaze. He heard the eggplant talking to the ingredients in a fuzzy monotone, but he didn’t bother to listen. What’s the point? Eggplant Baby thought, looking blearily towards the black pot.

As if in response to his query, the cook stepped towards the stove, and pulled out a long wooden spoon. She peered into the pot, and gave the broth a stir — adding a pinch of salt and pepper before replacing the lid, and turning to the ingredients. 

Eggplant Baby heard Davey’s voice rise above the chatter. “Time to go guys.”

The words hung in the air, and one by one, the rest of the ingredients fell silent.

Eggplant Baby looked up at the assembled group. Marcus stood behind Davey, swaying slightly from the whiskey — face grey and impassive. To the side, the cherries huddled in a group, their clipped stems swaying as Mrs. Potato stood over them — whispering in a soft, motherly manner. Behind them, the banana shifted his weight from one foot to the other: eyes flitting to each ingredient in turn, as if searching for a final quip to distract them from the looming silence.

And in the center, crouched like an old, wizened snail, sat Davey — lips firm, and eyes like twists of hardened steel. He met Eggplant Baby’s gaze. “You ready kid?”

Before Eggplant Baby could respond, a strangled cry rent the air. The ingredients turned, and there, far towards the edge of the counter, sat the sour-lime — his face a mask of anguish.

“No, NO! I can’t I CAN’T! I haven’t….I haven’t…..oh Christ…..”

He looked wildly around, eyes rolling in his green head, and shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Eggplant Baby found himself rolling towards the lime. “Mr. Lime…..Mr. Lime…….. Bruce!” he cried. “What’s wrong?”

The lime stopped and stared at him for a moment. Then a thunderbolt of rage spasmed across his face. 

“You!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Eggplant Baby. “It’s your fault! It’s all your fault!!!”

“W-what did I do?” Eggplant Baby stammered, slowing his roll. 

The lime rolled up to him and jabbed him in the chest with a green finger. “You. You just had to know. Everyone’s pasts — everyone’s lives. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. And now….and now….”

The lime’s eyes rolled in his head, and he began to breathe rapidly, sweat collecting in thick droplets on his forehead.

“He needs help!” Eggplant Baby shouted, as the lime collapsed to the floor, shaking.

Davey rolled over, followed by Mark and Mrs. Potato. They crouched over the green lime as he stared up at them with unseeing eyes, spit bubbling on his lips.

“What do we do?” asked Mrs. Potato. 

“Not much we can do” Davey said, shaking his head. “He’s suffering some kind of shock.”

Mrs. Potato looked worriedly at Mark, who shook his head. 

A small voice called out from across the counter. “Mr. Lime?”

Eggplant Baby turned, and saw Patrice rolling her tiny body towards them. As she reached them, the group parted, and the tiny cherry placed a hand on the lime’s heaving chest.

The shaking subsided every so slightly, and the lime turned to look at the tiny cherry. 

“Mr. Lime” she said, patting his chest. “What’s wrong?”

A bolt of anger passed over the lime’s face, and for an instant, Eggplant Baby was afraid he would strike the tiny cherry. Then the shadow passed, and Eggplant Baby found himself staring down at a sad, wizened fruit. 

“I — I failed them” he wheezed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

Patrice nodded to herself. She bent over the lime, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Who?” she asked softly. “Who did you fail? You can tell me, Mr. Lime.”

A line of wrinkles creased the lime’s face. “My family” he said with a moan. “M-my wife. She got harvested young. I should’ve protected her, I should have….” He let out a gasp, and two rivulets of tears streamed from his eyes. He swallowed, then opened his mouth — tongue dancing behind his lips as he tried to find the words. “And my daughter” he finally gasped, shaking his head as a look of pure anguish passed over his face. 

Patrice nodded and slid behind him, holding his head in her lap. “I know” she murmured softly, holding his head with her tiny hands. “It’s okay.”

The lime began to sob uncontrollably, shoulders shaking with grief. “I — I just wanted her to be strong” he said. “I didn’t want her to… and then she was…”

He shook his head as more tears poured from his eyes. “Her name was Lucia” he cried. “And I — I never even told her that I loved her.”

Eggplant Baby stepped back, his heart numb. He stared down at the lime, then looked up at Davey. The carrot’s face was unreadable. Then, with slow, steady ease, Davey dropped to one knee, and held out a hand to the lime. “Come on” he said gruffly. The lime stared at him, unmoving. 

Davey put the hand on his hip. “Listen you sour apple. I’ve been all over this crab-grass world. Seen a lot of things I shouldn’t. And lived far past my due date — that’s no doubt. But I’ll tell you one thing. Not many folks get to choose how they go out — or get to see it coming, no less. And I never met a single person without some unfinished business — big or small — weighin’ on them like stones on a toad.”

Davey sighed and wiped his hand on his knee. He fixed the lime with a long look.

“You got a lot on your heart, Bruce — that’s for sure. But I’ll tell you something—” the carrot’s eyes grew hard as diamonds.

“We’ve got a date with that pot up there” he tilted his head towards the stove. “And no friend of mine is gonna get cooked layin’ on his back.” Davey stuck his hand back out.

“So Bruce,” he said— “what’s it gonna be?”

The lime looked up at Davey, then over at Mark, Mrs. Potato, and finally at Eggplant Baby. He wiped his eyes with a green hand, and nodded. “Okay” he said shakily. “Alright.”

Davey reached out and took the lime’s hand, and together with Patrice, lifted the fruit to his feet. The green fruit wobbled momentarily, and Eggplant Baby reached out an arm, to catch him. The lime turned, and locked eyes with Eggplant Baby, and for a second, neither of them moved. Then, without a hint of sourness, the lime nodded to Eggplant Baby. 

“Thanks” he said gruffly.

Eggplant Baby smiled and bowed his head.

The lime straightened himself, and a new expression settled upon his face — one that had not sat there for many long months. He looked up at the pot, where the cook stood with hands on her hips.

“Well” the lime said — a solitary twinkle in his eye. “Looks like dinner’s almost ready.”

He turned to Patrice. “Shall we?” he asked, sticking his arm out. The tiny cherry nodded and took his arm, and together, the two strolled back towards the recipe book, where the rest of the ingredients sat waiting.

Mark turned to Davey. “So” he said. “You read the recipe. Who goes first?”

Davey took a deep breath and turned to Eggplant Baby. Eggplant Baby felt a strange feeling of calm settle in his chest. He nodded. “How — how long do I have?”

The carrot eyed the cook, who stood staring down at the recipe. 

“It’ll be any minute” the carrot said. Eggplant Baby nodded again. The other ingredients faces seemed suddenly very far away. He looked at Davey, then at Mark — then at Mrs. Potato. 

“Okay” he said. He turned, and began to roll towards the black pot — feeling with every movement that a great weight was being lifted from him. To his left, the rest of the ingredients watched him, unmoving — the bruised banana, a great sadness in his eyes, and Bruce and Patrice, their hands firmly clasped in a proud embrace. The rest of the cherries — Jenny, Jessie, Jezabel, Jacy, Mindy, Cindy, Cyprus, Angie, Angel, Basil, Bopkin, and Toothy — all watched Eggplant Baby roll, roll, roll, as Mrs. Potato, Mark, and Davey stood behind him — fading like statues into the river mist.

Eggplant Baby felt the cook’s hand grasp him around the middle, and she lifted him upwards, but her grip was not harsh. Her hands were soft, and Eggplant Baby felt like a baby bird — borne aloft by a light morning wind.

The hand brought him to rest, teetering on the edge of the pot, as the cook gave the boiling broth a final stir with the silver ladle.

Eggplant Baby turned and looked down at the counter — crowded with solemn, upturned faces.

Everyone else he thought dimly. Everyone else lived a full life.

“But so did I” he whispered. And as the words left his body, a stream of images rose like a flame within his being. And he remembered.

He remembered the cool mornings — the soft summer nights. He remembered the dew drops on every leaf, and the dry laughter of the corn at night, as they whispered jokes and stories to each other. He remembered his grandparents — old, and quiet and sad — swinging from their stalks, and occasionally brushing against each other in gentle reminder of a greener time. And most of all, he remembered his father — quiet, and wise — and the stories he would tell: of the faithful dove, the singing sky sparrow, and the onion who changed his roots. Of the morning robin, the wayfound worm, and the tale of the seven eggs. 

And as Eggplant Baby looked down upon the other ingredients, he was filled with wonder, for he saw them bathed in a field of pale light, stretching out across the whole of the kitchen, and away into the realms beyond. And though he knew none of them before that day, Eggplant Baby raised his hand, and waved — as if to old friends — and a smile spread across his face. The ingredients looked up at him, and one by one, Eggplant Baby saw the tips of their lips twinge, and their troubled faces soften, and soon there was a smile here, and a nod there, and they were all warming and getting ready to go — to follow him — the first through the gate. Eggplant Baby felt the cook’s hand grip him gently, and though he was but a moment away, time seemed to slow as he was raised into the air. He looked down, and caught Davey’s eye. The lumpy old carrot looked up at him with uncertainty, as if he was seeing an apparition — or the ghost of a pumpkin past. Then he nodded to Eggplant Baby, and a rough grin cracked his lumpy face.

“So long kid” he said, though the words were too far away to be heard. 

Eggplant Baby felt himself lowered slowly into the pot, and the boiling water touched the tips of his feet. But he felt no pain. And the last thing he saw as the pot’s rim dipped towards his eyes was the second eggplant — tall, and thin, and still unnamed — face turned towards him in silent respect. And it might have been the steam, or the rising waves of heat, but for an instant, Eggplant Baby saw the face shimmer, and change — and there before him was his father — silent, and proud. And he didn’t have to speak, because Eggplant Baby knew, somehow, that his dad was already there — waiting for him at the next stage. 

“I’m coming dad” he said. “I’m coming.”

—The End—

©2020 by Conor Duffy, All Rights Reserved