Variations on a theme

This evening, right after work, I made a beeline for the grocery store. It was a very gray, very rainy day, and that always puts me in the mood to cook -- in this case, I was fixated on ratatouille and could not rest until I'd put together something tomato-and-onion-and-eggplant-ish.

Of course, in these situations, there is always a foil.

In this case, I'd forgotten -- only to immediately remember as soon as I laid eyes upon their gleaming purple bodies in the produce aisle -- that I have very friendly feelings towards eggplants.

No, really. Just take the journey with me here, okay? Picture an eggplant in your mind. Look at the picture to the right. There's something about them that's very satisfying, isn't there! They're very hardy, very regal. (It's the purple, I think.) In fact, for reasons that I can no longer remember, I can never look at an eggplant and think, simply, "There is an eggplant." Instead, in my mind -- not that I am always thinking of eggplants or anything, but when I do think of one -- an eggplant it is not An Eggplant at all.

Instead, when I hold an eggplant in my hand, it takes on an entirely new identity; I call it Prince Aubergine.

Trust me, I know what you're thinking. My God, you are saying to yourself, she is utterly off her rocker.

And to you I say: Whatever. Eggplants (or, as the French call them, les aubergines) are a perfectly viable subject for anthropomorphism.

So down the aisle I trotted, to the place where the eggplants all lay, ass-end-out, piled atop one another in a delightful pile of firm, purple flesh. I inspected one, and then another, and then, at last, I pulled a prime specimen from the shelf. It had a perfect star-shaped top, lovely purple skin, and a firm bottom that gave gently when I squeezed it.

Ah, I thought, Prince Aubergine!

Maybe it's because I hadn't eaten much, or because the rain made me stir-crazy, but I admit that I started a little dialogue in my head with Prince Aubergine while I shopped. I laid him in my basket and thought, Zere, Prince Aubergine! Areh you cohmfortable? (I also supplied a French accent to my internal dialogue with Prince Aubergine; all I can say is that, at the time, it seemed appropriate.)

Prince Aubergine was docile as I made my way to the peppers, and then the onions.
Zere, Prince Aubergine! I chortled internally. Some ve-geh-table friends forh you!

Prince Aubergine rolled happily around in the basket. I admired the way that his purple flesh contrasted with the red of the pepper, the white of the onion.

Oh, Prince Aubergine! I said, You are so 'andsome! Would you lihke a can of toh-matos?
Prince Aubergine said that he would, and I picked one off the shelf.

Well, Prince Aubergine! I said, Eet eez time to go, non?
Prince Aubergine said that it was.

I walked with my basket up to the checkout line and loaded my purchases onto the conveyor belt. Prince Aubergine rolled in a lazy ellipse along the black rubber, looking very purple and somewhat smug. He really was a handsome eggplant.

A second later, the cashier grabbed hold of Prince Aubergine and laid him on the scale. She rang up his weight (Prince Aubergine, you are fat! You must lose zee kilos!) and then went to put him in the bag.

Along the way, however, Prince Aubergine slipped from her grasp. His round behind thumped gracelessly against the countertop.

"Sacrebleu, Prince Aubergine!" I chuckled to myself as I searched my purse for cash, "How she manhandles you!"

I was still digging in my purse when I suddenly felt that something was off. I looked up and realized what it was; the cashier was no longer bagging groceries. In fact, she had stopped moving entirely and was standing quite still. The eggplant was in her hand. She was staring at me.

It took me several seconds (more than it has taken you, I'm sure) to figure out that I had said that last bit of dialogue directed at Prince Aubergine out loud.


The frequency and intensity with which I embarrass myself being what it is, I didn't even try to explain. I just took Prince Aubergine home and ate him. He was delicious.