An Open Letter to Rocket

This open letter was originally featured in PASTEL Magazine Issue #3. You can buy a copy of the latest issue (as well as the previous two issues) here, and you can stalk their Instagram here. 

Literally the grossest thing in existence. Not safe for children under the age of 99. 

Dear Rocket,
There are few things in this world that prove the devil is real and wants to punish us.
UTIs, the garbage island in the Pacific Ocean, and sitting near small children on long-haul flights are all testaments to the fact we live in a deeply flawed world. But there exists an evil far more sinister and malevolent than the child in Row 17. I refer, of course, to the most insidious evil of them all: you.

Rocket (aka arugula/colewort/Lucifer’s anal hairs), a leaf by any other name would still make me gag. Rather than confine yourself from humanity, you typically infest salads or assert yourself as a garnish on far superior foods. For too long, I have struggled to articulate the sheer brutality of your tangy flavour. The phrases ‘desiccated testicle’ and ‘if gastroenteritis was a vegetable’ came to mind, but these insufficiently captured just how awful you truly are (as well as taint the good name of testicles everywhere).

I have spent countless hours extracting your leaves from otherwise delicious dishes, to the point where many innocent sandwiches have come to resemble homicide scenes or works by Jackson Pollock. These mutilations are an unfortunate side effect of living in a world where chefs insist on tainting dinner parties and brunch dates with your vulgar shade of gangrene.
There is a special place in Hell for people who genuinely enjoy eating you: it’s next to the people who grow you. I wish that NASA could take every one of your species, put you all on a spaceship (the only kind of rocket that serves a purpose) and launch it directly into the sun.

If nothing else, our relationship has taught me that you can judge someone’s character based on what they pick out of their salad. I dream of a future where my children and my grandchildren will look at you as I would regard polio and the Black Death: bygone scourges of history. May you be banished from every restaurant, cafe, food truck and supermarket. Take thy leaves from out my salad and remove thy form off my goddamn planet.

Sincerely,
Vivienne Coburn

What Your Favourite Easter Treat Says About You

Whether you truly believe that Jesus was the reason for the season or whether you believe that Jesus (had he been resurrected) was a zombie, there’s no denying that the best thing about Easter is the abundance of cheap chocolate. However, your favourite form of choccy egg says a lot about you as a person. No egg-aggerating here.

Humpty Dumpty: My mum still folds my undies.

Lindt Gold Bunny: I would never use toilet paper that was less than 3-ply. Don’t you know who I am?

Chocolate Bunnies That Aren’t Lindt: I’m still convinced that Shannon Noll was robbed.

Cadbury Creme Egg: If caramel frappuccinos aren’t a legitimate form of coffee, I don’t want to know what is.

Chocolate Bilby: I’m not willing to go vegan, but I’d like to remind you that land clearing and global warming are really crucifying the planet right now. If you eat a chocolate bunny, you’re a terrible person.

Darrell Lea Nougat: Hey, pull my finger.

Cadbury Dairy Milk Bag: I’m lying to myself when I say that I’m only eating one of these at a time. The whole bag will be gone in an hour.

Dairy-free/vegan chocolate: I think that there’s something misunderstood about people who eat dirt.

No Chocolate This Year, I’m on a Diet: I used to know how to have fun.

Hot Cross Buns With Sultanas: There’s a 90% chance that I’m convinced that the Earth is flat.

If you’d like to insist that vegan chocolate doesn’t taste like dirt, or if you eat Lindt bunnies and think you’re tough enough to live with 2-ply paper, let me know. Also, if you’re doing anything interesting for Easter, I’d also love to know.

Much love (and Happy Good Friday),
Pear and Ivy x