A MAN IN LOVE WITH MANGELS, AND THE WOMAN WHO BETRAYED HIM



"I am a man in love with mangels." said Uncle Mac, and brandished a seed catalog proudly aloft. "Just look at these sumbitches!"

SOME BIG ASS MANGELS

"Those truly are big ass mangels", observed Farm Girl, "but they are just beets. Really BIG beets, but beets, never the less. You don't like beets, I don't like beets, and neither does anyone else here. Why would you want to grow these?"

"Beats me", replied Mac. "But I love growing exceptionally large vegetables now and again. You know that."

At with that he finished filling out his mangel seed order, writing a check, stamping the envelope and with an air of finality tossed it in the "out" basket. 

"Think I'll go see what Millie's up for. Er, up to I mean."

"Good idea," said Farm Girl, "I can use the rest."

He donned his winter coat, grabbed a bottle of Napoleon brandy (once again looted from the Emperors private stash*) nodded once and exited the orchard door.

Farm Girl watched him leap the stone wall which separated Millie's orchard from Shed territory, a smile on his guileless face and a song, no doubt, in his heart

"Old goat!" she muttered.

She considered mangels, and also who it was that would most likely be planting, weeding and tending them. She considered how no one in the entire shed crew like beets. She considered whether or not short circuiting Uncle Mac's mangeling plans constituted an act of betrayal.

She decided that it did.

"Screw it!" she muttered, opened the potbellied stove and tossed the seed order into the flames.

"By the time Millie's done with him he'll forget his own name."

And she busied herself making coffee.




*This had not gone unnoticed by the Emperor who never the most patient of men was beginning to weary of the chronic brandy shortage. He was commencing to suspect his Marshals. "Is this your fault, Soult?" he was heard to inquire. "What do you know, Oudinot?" on another occasion. "And what about you, Davout?" (with even less justice, for the good Marshal never touched spirits.)

For a brief time a thirsty Uncle Mac was a bigger thorn in the Imperial side than the Russian winter.