Dear Can of Baby Corn,
The hell? How do you keep ending up in my pantry? I never purchase you. I’ve donated you to the food bank at least three times. And yet here you are, again â€” stony, steadfast, utterly useless. Baby Corn, you are beginning to stress me out.
Even if I wanted to use you, I wouldn’t know how. Grill you and take little, tiny nibbles? Blend you up in a hideous baby-vegetable smoothie? I am at a loss.
Baby Corn, your persistence is unsettling. The can of Haggis, I married into that. Bryan keeps it in the cupboard as an uproarious pantry joke. The twelve cans of aging garbanzo beans? Those are leftover from the overambitious homemade-hummus fiasco of 2006. But you? You are mute and inexplicable.
Go away, Baby Corn. You’re making everyone uncomfortable.
P.S. Take the can of Mandarin oranges with you.