And The Beet Goes On

Oh, oh, oh. This morning after
swimming we stopped over at
the Hahn Farm to get some
sweet corn. Farmer Hahn grows
THE BEST sweet corn anybody's
ever tasted. Every July the word
spreads like wildfire through Lime
Plant City that "Hahns's got sweet
corn!" and everybody drives over
there to get some. They just drive
in and out of the Hahn Farm all
day every day until every last ear
is picked and eaten...sometime in
September.

Hahn's Farm is one of the few
excellent reasons for living here.
They really know how to do it.

We couldn't decide if we should
get half a dozen ears, or if we
should just have the farm boys
unloading the days haul dump
as much as they could into the
back of our Geo.

We ended up opting for the half
dozen. The boys told us we could
always come back tomorrow and
get fresh ears. (They talked like, "why would anyone eat day old sweet corn when they could get fresh?"
...so fresh it smells like a hundred years of good soil and light rains...so fresh the sunshine falls out when
you tear off the husks...)

While there I noticed a sign they had posted indicating they also had beets for sale. 4 for $1.
I asked for some, although I couldn't see any over the mountain of corn. One young boy yelled
out, "Mr. Hahn, are you getting any beets?" Mr. Hahn came around the corner and asked
"How many do you want?" I thought fast and said, "Eight!" Then, Farmer Hahn walked away
down the field to the beet rows and started pulling out my beets. I mean, I just stood there
thinking, "Wow! Beets! Fresh!" He came back and presented me with a beautiful bouquet
of beets with all the greens attached. I smiled from here to the moon.

Tonight we had sweet corn, roasted beets and cooked beet greens for dinner. The Man put
his fork down at one point and said, "I've never heard anyone enjoy their food like you are
doing tonight." I think he was slightly annoyed because I was moaning after every bite.

I told him, "Beet it, Pal. Lemme alone. I'm in beet heaven. " I stifled my moans, though,
and got it down to an involuntarily squeek.

The Man asked me which of my ancestors was a beet eater. I told him I'm descended from
an ancient tribe of Irish beetniks.

If you can't beet 'em, join 'em, that's what I always say.

Hamlet asked, "To beet, or not to beet?"

In the words of Michael Jackson, "Beet It! Just beet it!"

Cops walk their beets, but I prefer mine roasted with a touch of olive oil.

I really should stop beeting myself up.

I think I should beet a hasty retreat.

Perhaps beet around the bush.

I could always try beeting the clock.

But, why beet a dead horse, that's what I want to know!