Crooked Little Pignut
You’re my precious crooked pignut. When I cook up a hearty stew — not a soup — I am always tempted to add you in to the mix. Your pignut flavor would instantly catapult my stew to otherworldly heights. My days of serfdom would be long behind me once someone with money was able to taste my pignut stew. Seriously, it would change my life in ways I can’t even begin to imagine. There’d probably even be top secret hiccup cures that would be revealed to me when I became that rich.
But as wonderful as my life would be, I just can’t bring myself to do that. Because you’re my precious little crooked pignut. You belong on the beach, sipping bourbon.
A pignut is just such a rare sight around here that I can’t bring myself to actually eat you, even in a life-changing stew. My ex-girlfriend thinks that I’m some horrible reptile, the kind of reptile that would refuse to change its life just because of some psychotic attachment to an inanimate hognut. I tried to explain that you were a pignut, not a hognut, and my devotion was far from psychotic, but I don’t think she believed me.
That’s ok, she kept eyeing you with ravenously hungry eyes that always had me worried for your safety. We’re better off now that she’s off harvesting cucumbers and hemlock in the great Siberian snow forests.
But I still felt the need to write you this note. I know that one day you’ll become sentient and learn how to read, and then this will all make sense. Until then you might be a little confused about what all this means. Don’t worry, even though you’re crooked, it’ll all work out in the end.