Thursday, May 19, 2005


As I stroll the mountainfoot village byways and outlying roads and pathways on my local springtime rambles, as an erstwhile onion grower I can't help but feel a recurring twinge of virtual nostalgia over what never was, when I note the local inhabitants' unconstrained success at growing onions to an extent that is practically offensive - rows and rows, columns, regiments, divisions, standing armies of onions - that over time swell like liquid pearls at the base of proud green leafspears rising sturdily above the brown earth like flags of the vast onion nation, open to the sun and heedless of the wind, marching onward into kitchens, the while transforming soil into something that excels atop a cheeseburger or as fried golden rings or just makes a great sandwich alone with mayonnaise, to say nothing of the many roles of onions in the salads and sauces of this world, and I say to myself: there are no monkeys around here.

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