Annie wouldn’t touch her green beans, so I ate them. Just a joke. I’m the narrator, folks.
(This post was inspired by Harold and Maude.)
She plowed through her mashed potatoes heedlessly, as if getting through them was getting through a required course in high school that nobody wanted to take. Her spoon would come up to her lips. Then break. She would gulp down more potatoes. Then more spoon meets face meets mashed potatoes meets digestive system. If only she had time to digest…
But the green beans? Wouldn’t touch ’em.
This wouldn’t be a shocker had it not been Annie Fitzpatrick we were talking about. Each day in the summer back when the family lived in Omaha, Annie would write poems about nature this and nature that. She would spend the afternoons picking green beans from the fields. But Readers, we’re not in Omaha anymore! Ain’t nobody pick’n those motherfuck’n green beans! But they still made it to the dinner plate. Yet the relationship with the green beans had changed on this day, because, as they say when the pray on the holy days of Passover, “Why is this night different from all the other nights?”
And then you would get the four most pedantic kids in the class to answer the four questions. Our problem is, we don’t have four answers, or even one for that matter! Annie is a mystery. Annie is an enigma. And I think that’s part of her charm.