It began as something pure, kernels and beans arrayed in hues of yellow and green; roots, brown and orange resounding in their chorus. They had celebrated this day for all their peaceful months of living. Every Friday was set aside to appreciate the peace and joy they knew, and for the whole of their living memories it was ALL they knew; thus they sang their joy on their cobs and in their pods. None could have foreseen that this Friday would be different. A terror MUCH older than they had awoken.

A meat, wild and untamable, had learned of this season-long peace, and hated them for it. The malice of that meat could not be matched and it’s flavor had stewed for days in pots forgotten; but that was not all. In the silent places of the fridge that meat lay in quiet marination. It performed this rite with a sickening pairing of powers, milk and soy sauce, for it would not allow its flavor and tenderness to be abated. On that certain Friday it made itself known.

It is beyond reasoning; the extent of the torture that those happy vegetables were made to endure. A knife, wielder-less, great as the grandeur of the mountains, sharp as the sheer cold of the deepest corners of the freezer, and terrible like the oven burning alive in a wrath unquenchable, descended upon them. It was a forgotten weapon of that sadistic flesh. Kernels were sliced from their cobs and left in ruin. Beans, ravaged and chopped while still in their pods, lay silent and dying. Roots, diced into oblivion, were thrown into great piles of hatred and murder. When all lay dying and the celestial knife tired of its carnage the flood came.

A torrent of broth, hot and steaming, the power of whose flavor was beyond reckoning, came rushing forth like a cavalry that would not be stopped. There was something else. The herbs and the spices; who had ever been their friends, were there. They were betrayed. Barks, leaves, and seeds wove their patterns into the assault, so that the flavor of the broth had been whetted to pierce like bitter despair. They would be boiled alive in that broth, but not before their captor joined them, for it was happy to have such a miserable company in its domain. Over the long days that meat had stewed itself into into fibrous tendrils of flavor which choked any life that was left in its prey. Contented at last the meat offered itself up to its heathen gods, satisfied with its savory machination. “Name yourself, flesh”. Demanded the gods. The meat smiled with satisfaction. “I am Venison, and this is my stew.”