A talking carrot and a tomato. That was it—my first stroke of genius as a fiction writer. I began meticulously crafting a dialogue between the two foods I had often neglected on my dinner plate. As my six-year-old self sat criss-crossed in the dining room of a small, cozy apartment building, my focus drifted into the cuisine world I had designed in my miniature spiral-bound notebook. I became an observer, not the creator, it seemed, of the interaction between the carrot and the tomato.
“Why is he ignoring me? Is it because I’m too round?” a small, cherry tomato asked aloud while in a staring contest with the god-like human child.
“Of course not,” a tall, tan figure reassured the tomato as it emerged beside the mashed potatoes. “He might not be hungry at the moment.”
The tomato turned. “You’re probably right, thanks,” it said anxiously, followed by a heavy silence.
“Steve the Carrot,” the figure introduced himself before swiftly rolling over to the tomato. “But you can call me Steve for short.”
The tomato took a deep breath. “Jato the Tomato. But please, call me Judy.”
Steve nodded as he suppressed his smile he worried would break into laughter. “Nice to meet—”
“Shhh!” Judy interrupted. “Sorry, I hear something.” A deep voice radiated across the room.
“The Gods have spoken.”
My focus shattered and warped back into consensus reality. The voice now projected loudly and directly in front of me.
“Is anyone there?” my mom asked warmly as she sat down across the table. The words I had written blended into blurry and meaningless symbols.
“Huh? Yeah,” I sluggishly responded while sobering from the ecstasy of my lucid imagination. I looked up.
“I asked if you were enjoying your vegetables. I worked really hard to cook them exactly how you like, so please eat them this time.”
I peered down again at the lifeless food in front of me. I stabbed my fork into a carrot before taking a small bite, a reluctant nibble that marked the end of my first half-baked fiction piece and the beginning of my newfound passion for writing. My appreciation for vegetables, however, stalled until the later years of my adolescence.