Eric and I have been trying to be better about meal planning. Based on past experience, what this really means is that we came up with a bunch of ideas, executed two, are coasting on the leftovers, and will go back next week to the usual what-do-you-want-for-dinner-I-don’t-know. (I usually end up being the one to force the issue because I get hungry faster.) However, while our initial fervor lasted, Eric decided to make beef stew.

This was a huge production, involving two pounds of stew meat, five potatoes, six onions, enough celery to make rope with, and so on. Note that he’s the only one in the house who’s going to eat beef stew.

The recipe called for a kazillion carrots, or however many it was, so I pulled out the bag of garden carrots. “Not those,” Eric said.

“Why not?” I demanded, ready to defend the last remaining result of last year’s labors other than the dried herbs.

“Those are your special carrots. I don’t want to use them up.”

I relaxed. “They’ve been in the fridge for two months. They need to get eaten.” I pulled a few out and noticed that several of the tops had started growing. Apparently I didn’t cut off enough. “They really need to get eaten.”

“Okay,” Eric said, instantly amenable. I started chopping the carrots. I popped a piece in my mouth, then offered him one. He took it, chewed, and said, “They do taste better. They taste…” He trailed off, frowning.

“More like carrots?” I suggested.

“Yeah! If we had enough of them, you probably couldn’t get me to buy baby carrots at the store anymore.”

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