Onions Are Evil

"Onions are evil," said Morgan.

"You can't hate onions," I said.

"Why not?"

"I already complained about food on this blog."

"But they're like the playground bully of vegetables," she said.

"Now, see, you really can't say that."

"But think about it," said my little sister.  "They take over everything.  Say you've got a nice roast beef sandwich on rye."

"Have you ever eaten rye?" asked The Dog.

"Shut him up, Pete," said Morgan.

"Let's be supportively silent," I suggested.

"Roast beef on rye," Morgan continued.  "You put on the mayonnaise, the tomato, the lettuce, and maybe even a pickle.  But then, you add a simple slice of onion, and that's all you can think about.  What if a guy shows up at our house and he doesn't like onions?  All he'll notice is my onion breath."

"You think about guys?" asked The Dog.

"So help me," said Morgan, "I will hit you."

I decided to distract her while The Dog made his escape.  "You're telling me you don't like onions for social reasons?"

"It's more than that.  The flavor bites at you, and then it stays with you, and while you might want to remember the milder meats or the mellow cheeses, onion is your only companion.  It is your Raven, crying 'Evermore!'"

There was a long pause.

"That was very dramatic," I said.

"I've been studying for English," said Morgan.

"You could always cook the onions," suggested The Dog.

"Then they just give me gas."

"Okay," I said.  "I'll make your sandwich without onions."

"You're the best, Pete."

--Pete