Carrots: The Orange Menace

Note: The following is partially excerpted from the essay that got me into UVA. There was going to be another joke here about it keeping me out of a university that had a carrot as a mascot, but there aren't any. 

Well, folks, I'm having a just wonderful start to my semester, what with it being 22 degrees outside and all. According to my roommate, it was negative seven last night, which made me worry until I realized that she measures everything via the metric system. 

But I'm back at school now, and I'm so, so, so exited to be learning things (almost as exited as I was to get my cavities filled!) For all you poor southerners who get MLK Day off, I thought I'd slip a little tidbit of education your way. Did you know the orange carrot was cultivated in the 17th century by the Dutch as a tribute to William of Orange? If only they'd just started growing, like, actual oranges instead, my life would be so much easier. 

You see, I hate carrots. Whenever I'd get ramen noodles at those chilly spring track meets (only after racing, I swear), I would pick out the dehydrated 'carrot' chunks and flick them onto the bleachers with a plastic fork. Neesha, our team captain, was the only person I ever actually hit. Her and some Lake Braddock sprinters, but they decided to rub our loosing record in our face, so whatever.

 But the carrot problem's gotten to the point where whenever my mom makes stew, she makes me a separate portion without the carrots. This is slightly embarrassing, because I like to pretend that I'm a mature adult. Mature adults don't need their mommies to make them special dinners. However, she's realized that if she gives me carrots, I will pick them out and put them on the side of the plates.

Taylor, naturally, tells me that I need to grow up and stop acting like a baby.  

This video is me, as a baby, refusing to eat carrots. Note the way I eat the applesauce when my father offers it to me, but keep my mouth shut when it's carrots on the spoon. 

I hate carrots. I have hated them all my life. I will hate them until the day I die. Unfortunately  my friend Sarah (the brunette Sarah from high school) is one of the sweetest, kindest people in the whole wide world. She loves nothing more than serving her fellow man--which sometimes leads to her serving her friend carrots. 

So I'm over at her house and her mom asks me to stay for lunch. I say sure and ask what I can do to help. She relegates me—novice cook that I am—to tasks that in no way, shape, or form involved the oven. Set the table, pour the drinks, and prepare the family’s favorite vegetable.

            Carrots.

Taylor says the way I do anything in the kitchen is wrong, but Sarah, for some reason (like manners) didn't comment on how long it took me to skin the carrots. Which is a good thing, because I was about to gag the whole time. Then we sat down and I filled my mouth with water before shoving in a carrot and chowing down as quickly as humanly possible. Of course, when Sarah read the award-winning* essay I wrote on my ordeal, she was quite upset: “Dear Liz, you shouldn’t have felt obligated to eat them!” Of course, it's a nice attitude like that which explains why I felt obligated to eat them.

Of course, Taylor makes me eat carrots, too. One night, I came over to her house to watch a movie. I even called ahead first, which I don't always do, so she really should have been in my debt. We made (she made, I nearly ruined) a delicious Asian stir-fry with tofu, peppers, and—you guessed it—carrots. All was well until about halfway through the movie, when she noticed that my plate was covered in uneaten orange cubes.

            “Why aren’t you eating your carrots?” Her eyes narrowed into reptilian slits. Her pupils flashed red. This was probably just my imagination. 

            “I don’t like ‘em.”  I mutter, staring down at my lap.

            She wrinkled up her face in the same way she does when my stupid dog tries to put her tongue in Taylor's eye. “Are you crazy? Everyone likes carrots!”

            “Not me. You’re not my mother!”

            "Eat them!"

            "No!" I fold my hands over my chest. "I'm not eating them. And that's final."

            Yeah, I ended up eating them. To be fair, she did bribe me with one of her cupcakes, so it wasn't actually that bad or anything. I mean, I've driven that girl all across Northern Virginia for a cupcake.

           Of course, she bakes me carrot cake cupcakes for my birthday. The ironic thing? They're the best cupcakes I've ever tasted.

            *By award-winning, I mean it won me a place at a college I didn't go to.