It started when the lettuce seedlings, just pushing their heads above the soil in the schoolroom window box, made a remark: “We are far more useful than you are.”
They were speaking to the geranium, which took this with composure. “I was never meant to be useful,” it said. “I try to be bright and cheerful. Not every plant can be the same.”
The onions — also coming up in their own box, still very small — had been listening. One of them opened its mouth to speak, then went quiet again.
“You started to say something,” said the lettuce.
“Sometimes I get too discouraged to finish,” said the onion.
“But why?”
“For you, it’s different, little lettuce,” the onion said at last. “You’re considered a luxury. A treat.”
“Don’t people enjoy eating you?” asked the lettuce.
“Oh, they do,” said the onion. “But they’re ashamed of it. They eat us when they’re alone, as if they don’t want to be caught. I’ve heard people say, ‘I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but I do love fried onions.’ Another will whisper, ‘Can you believe it — little Freddy likes raw onions.’ As if it were something to hide.”
“But if you weren’t liked,” said the lettuce, gently, “you wouldn’t be planted.”
“True,” the onion admitted. “We flavor half the dishes in any decent kitchen. But nobody gives us credit. They’ll say they’re adding just a touch of onion to the soup — not enough to taste, just a little something. We do the work and get none of the glory. Life is full of trials.”
