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GROW YOUR OWN By Brenda W. Clough The papyrus in the big plastic tub sighed. "This isn't much like Egypt." "That's right," said the pink-flowered African violet. "How about some cooler humidity? and some real food? Maybe a pork chop." In the grip of a post-cocaine depression, the witch pretended not to hear. She continued to drip a very dilute solution of plant food onto the violet's roots from a long-spouted watering can. The smaller African violet was, in every sense, more immature. It had in fact graduated only last week into a three-inch pot. From beneath its single stalk of baby-blue flowers it whined, "I want some Haagen Dazs. I want some lox from Zabar's. I want a standing rib roast, medium rare, with lots of pan gravy, and mashed potatoes made with cream and butter --" "Will you shut up!" The witch slammed the watering can down onto the radiator, knocking the humidity tray over. Pebbles and stale water sprayed over her faded jeans and shabby sandals. When she jumped back she almost lost her footing. The ceiling-high fiddle-leaf fig stedied her with a broad curvy leaf, but she shook it off. "Damn it, I'm as hungry as you are!" She bared her teeth in a humorless smile. "I'm the only one who really is hungry, and not for food either. All the rest of you are just reflecting me. Plants don't eat roast beef, and you know it!" "That pebble bruised my trunk," the dieffenbachia mourned. It loved to wallow in self-pity, and now lowered a big spotted leaf down to rub the hurt. "We're slaves, that's all." "Chained by bonds of economic |
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