He had become increasingly convinced that his produce was alive and lived in a sort of death row existential fugue as it awaited death by mastication.
Sharing this thought with his parish congregation was, understandably, not an option.
Nonetheless, he began to dread trips to the market, and, at a low tide of reason, selected only the overripe and the bruised, thinking to spare the young and underripe fruit and vegetables the pain of consumption for as long as possible.
Lent that year was, in a word, mushy.
