I didn’t exactly forget about the carrots growing by my back door. After all, I watered them almost every day. I looked at their feathery leaves almost every day.

I’d pulled one too early in the season and found a pinky-sized chunk of rabbit food.

So I let the others stay. And stay. And stay.

And apparently, they grew and grew and grew.

Into fist-sized carrots. Which, in my opinion, is far too big for carrots.

Who needs a carrot this large? No one, that’s who.

I’d unearthed another, the week before, similarly voluminous, which I neglected to photograph. I did, however, taste it, and it tasted much like I believe carrot scented bark would taste. Or orange cardboard.

This one I wouldn’t bother even tasting, because when I turned it over, I discovered it wasn’t much of a carrot afterall.

The bulky one was hollowed out. Oopsies!

The purple one was saved for closer examination.

I hoped it would taste like a grape carrot. Or like a jolly ranchered carrot.

No such luck, though.

It tasted like your average, run of the mill, store-bought orange carrot that happened to be purple.

The flavor held no evidence of the months of toil, the grown-from-seed gusto infusion I’d expected.

Which led me to wonder, do I even like carrots?

I’m not sure that I do.

I don’t dislike them. I wouldn’t recoil in horror if they landed on my salad at my neighborhood cafe. I wouldn’t race to a disinfecting station after handling one.

But I would like them a whole lot better if they tasted like purple Skittles.

I’ll be back manana, hope to see you here.