peace out, chickens

I heard a story the other day about a hippie-ish do-gooder who started a community garden in the slums of D.C. He was harvesting one summer afternoon when a group of children approached him and began asking questions, like what's that? and what are you doing? and are you crazy?

After some friendly banter, he pulled out carrots. It had the same effect as a magician producing a white rabbit out of a hat, because they'd never really thought about things growing in the ground.

Seeing this, the hippie-ish do-gooder asked, "What other things grow in the ground?"

One small boy ventured, "spaghetti?"

I don't understand how fax machines work. I don't understand how computers or telephones or nail polish remover works. Until two years ago, I had no idea where garlic or cloves or mustard came from. I'm confused by our facts of life, such as concrete and grocery stores and cublicles.

But you know, I really do love my dishwasher.