Every Tuesday, Chef Carroline stands on the worn cobbles of Fluffletown’s square, holding aloft a single, impossibly crisp carrot, its orange skin gleaming like captured sunlight.
“Guess what it’s for,” she says, her voice cutting through the murmur of the market.
The baker, flour-dustin his apron, shouts, “Whisking!”
A poet, clutching a battered notebook, shouts, “Writing!”
A child, peeking from behind her mother’s skirts, whispers, “Planting.”
Carroline listens. Smiles a slow, secret smile. And takes a bite.
CRUNCH! The sound echoed off the surrounding buildings, sharp and final.
Silence. Everyone froze, staring at Carroline chewing, utterly bewildered.
“Nope,” Carroline said, mouth satisfyingly full. A tiny orange fleck landed on her chin. “It was for eating.”
Then, whistling a jaunty tune, she set out fifty more gleaming carrots on the old well for next week.
