Dear Basil,

I just returned home from the annual convention of fruits and nuts, which I attend religiously every year. (Call me crazy.) Vegetables and spices were also invited, and I brought along my friend Tomato. We arrived late, so for a while had to play ketchup.

There was little space left and we had to contend with sitting in the dark and muggy back of the auditorium next to a Mr. Shiitake who looked like he'd grown out of the wrong side of the log that morning, with his cap all bent out of shape. But in the end, he turned out to be a fun guy.

Other representatives of the plant kingdom from around the globe were in attendance. There was even a contingency of extraterrestrials, a group of little green beans from Mars, heavily engaged in a lascivious exchange with a group of Earthlings who I first mistook for male nuts, but which on closer inspection I could see were actually chick peas.

The first lecture, “What Makes Me Tick,” was presented by Thyme.

He had many excellent suggestions as to how we could all become better fruits and nuts. I was duly impressed. And need I say, the spice girls were all gaga over him? One of whom I recognized, by the way, as Rosemary’s baby.

When he suggested we all get more politically involved, I admit, I wasn’t too enthused, but from the leafy green section of the room erupted several cries of, “yeah, lettuce.” Their enthusiasm kind of helped to sway me, at least parsley.

Not all in the room were swayed, though. A few rows in front of me, I heard some grumbling about, “making a mango crazy.” And of course, the grapes began raisin their objections. But what else is new? They always turn sour.

It actually turned quite nasty for a moment, as a fight broke out between the grapes and some peanuts. One of the latter was a salted. A security officer pear came and tried to break it up, with little success. Then, fortunately, in strode “Mr. Cool” – S.A.Q. Cumber – to waive his magic wand, and all settled down.

In spite of the tremendous ruckus, the couple sitting right behind me appeared oblivious to the world around them, seemingly wrapped within the rind of their own melon-drama. As the room quieted down, I overheard the male say, “oh honey dew come with me.”

Whereto the female replied, “I’m sorry but I have responsibilities. I cantaloupe with you. Your gift is lovely, 24 carrots and all, but I really can’t juice it for anything, can I?”

Not actually wanting to be eavesdropping, I turned my attention to my friend Tomato and noticed that she sat sobbing, quietly. I awkwardly tapped her on the back and said, “come now, what’s wrong, let it out.” And like a bottle of Heinz that had been holding back, suddenly it all came gushing out of her.

She told me how her best friend Olive had been canned and disappeared, that her son dried tomatoes for a living, and that she herself felt she’d been plucked before she was ripe. Her whole world seemed to be heading towards the fall.

I didn’t know how to respond. Should I be chili and let her stew, or try to pepper up? I’d often been accused of not being a good listener because I grew up with only one ear. Feeling corn-fused about my friend, I turned my attention back towards the podium.

An orange fellow joined by a plum gal had taken to the stage to try and quiet the assembly. The grapes were beet, the rebellion squashed. Except for my friend Tomato, all seemed peachy once more in the land of fruits and nuts.

Your friend,

Corn

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Footnote: All puns / jokes original except the one about one peanut being "a salted," which I heard on Mothy Python's Flying Circus.

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