Turnips, I don’t know how the hell you managed to make the transition from garden refuse to food. I sorta get why someone might try nibbling the green bits. They don’t taste good, but neither do most of the other leafy greens shooting up, and hey, if it’s grabbing some of the stuff the rabbits eat or taking on a mastodon with a pointy stick, I can see where a resourceful guy might reevaluate his culinary options. But the bulb? You’re basically tulip seeds with nothing to show for yourself on top. It’s what you get when you cross a potato with a rock, then add dirt and a sharp whiff of petroleum. Who was the first guy to taste you and actually go back for seconds? I’ll tell you who: A starving guy.
Basically, you are what people eat when they have no other options. No wonder turnips feature so prominently in 19th century Russian Literature.
— Svetlana, it is all over. Pyotr Alexandovovitch has taken our cow, and the last potato field has succumbed to weevils. It will be a cold December before we see another drop of borscht. Tomorrow, my sweet, let us put rocks in the pockets of my overcloak and drown ourselves in the Volga.
— Fyodor, my darling, do not be so hasty. Look what I have unearthed! Miracle of miracles! A turnip! We shall eat like Tsars for a week! We are saved!
— You call that saved? Pfui. I like my idea better.
2/10. Again, it’s in my grandma’s chicken soup, which is sacrosanct.
image via wikipedia, via thebittenworld.com
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