There once was a young boy who would not eat his vegetables.
“Eat your vegetables,” his father boomed from the head of the table.
The boy cowered in his seat near the end, and again touched the tip of the farthest-away fork tine to the tiny, green bundle of miniature cabbage on his plate.
Brusselsprout.
It wiggled from the contact and settled back into place, upright again just like a bop bag.
The young boy stared at his nemesis, whose flower opening seemed to be sneering at him. He raised an eyebrow—and his fork—and stabbed that Brusselsprout through it’s dead, lukewarm heart. Piercing it with fervor, and plugging his nose with his free hand, the young boy ingested that vegetable. Mastication. A gulp. A sense of victory.
“EAT YOUR VEGETABLES!” his father yelled louder this time, slamming his fist down onto the lacquered oak table.
The young boy grimaced and looked down at his plate. The fallen brusselsprout’s brothers were there, waiting. An army to overtake. A precipice to conquer.
It would be a long night.
“Eat your vegetables,” his father boomed from the head of the table.
The boy cowered in his seat near the end, and again touched the tip of the farthest-away fork tine to the tiny, green bundle of miniature cabbage on his plate.
Brusselsprout.
It wiggled from the contact and settled back into place, upright again just like a bop bag.
The young boy stared at his nemesis, whose flower opening seemed to be sneering at him. He raised an eyebrow—and his fork—and stabbed that Brusselsprout through it’s dead, lukewarm heart. Piercing it with fervor, and plugging his nose with his free hand, the young boy ingested that vegetable. Mastication. A gulp. A sense of victory.
“EAT YOUR VEGETABLES!” his father yelled louder this time, slamming his fist down onto the lacquered oak table.
The young boy grimaced and looked down at his plate. The fallen brusselsprout’s brothers were there, waiting. An army to overtake. A precipice to conquer.
It would be a long night.
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