I sat down on my kitchen floor beside a crate of eggplant to try for some inspiration. I got a cabinet knob right in the ol’ spine, adding injury to insult. The insult is to eggplant — a magnificent nightshade, sexy, supple, shiny, purple — a fine food that is failing, for whatever reason, to spark my morning imagination. Nevertheless, I soldier forth. Such are the dangers of writing on deadline. This particular crate holds a half-dozen types of eggplant: royal-purple water balloons; lavend...
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