Thunder rolled over the salad fields. The crouton troops marched forth, bronzed-baked and merciless. The Garden's Elders, parsley, tomato, and the fragile one: lettuce—sat on top of the Hill of Dressing.
"We must choose one," Parsley said, her voice shaking like chopped herbs.
Lettuce moved forward, shivering but determined. "Let it be me. The vinaigrette must flow. Balance must be restored. "
"No! " Tomato sobbed. "You are the salad's soul! "
"But I am also the shield," Lettuce said. "Let my crispness coat the path. "
And with a peaceful rustle, she descended, laying herself upon the altar of Bowl. The gods of appetite were happy. The storm subsided. Peace was restored.
As a result, all feasts begin the same way:
A quiet nod. A silent thank you.
For the one who gave everything,
Lettuce was the first to fall.