“Do you have a turnip hatch?” I asked a friend.
“A what?” he replied, as if he were baffled by the coupling of the word turnip with the word hatch.
Before I could answer, I found myself imagining a hatch (an opening in the floor) through which turnips were exchanged in the depths of the Night, by hooded priest-like figures who held the turnips with great care and reverence. I wondered where the turnips had come from and where they were going, but that didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was that this often-overlooked vegetable was regarded, in this imagining, with bizarre and obvious veneration.
Perhaps it was part of a ritual in honoring the Earth for all that it produced? But if that were so, then why should turnips be singled out? It certainly wasn’t the most attractive vegetable, but for that very reason it seemed to demand more attention. So be it!
At that moment, the turnip hatch was thrown open in my mind, and with it its mysterious and seductive secret was revealed. Indeed, the modern world was utterly lacking in ritual, poetry, the nobility of the soul that could elevate a turnip into a symbol of mystical resonance. We had stripped life down to the bare minimum, and our souls were hungry for all that MTV could never provide.
My mind exploded with turnip-related thoughts, and for a moment God became a turnip and a turnip became God. ”I will carry your turnips from the turnip hatch!” I screamed to my friend, who by now was wondering what I was wondering. As I uttered these strange words, I imagined myself cradling a single turnip in my arms as if it were a newborn baby, born of the plasma of turnip-inspired ecstasy.