"It doesn't seem fair," I said this morning as I lopped the root off a perfectly formed beet. "You put on all this beautiful growth, and then I come along and eat you."
I cut the tops off and picked through them, setting aside the younger ones. Then I reached again for the knife. "But then, if I didn't eat you, what would you do anyway?"
"I would grow new roots," the beet said. "Long ones. Lateral ones. I would explore new avenues in the soil. You have no idea what's under there. I would become larger and even more beautiful. I would reach my full potential. And then I would produce seed. Seed! You should know what that's like. I would have the pleasure of watching my seeds sprout and grow. Eventually I would turn woody and stiff, but at the end I would be surrounded by the new generation I produced."
My hand, which had paused in mid-air from surprise, came down again from force of habit.
"Do you realize you just cut me in half?" the beet asked a little disjointedly.