A week or two ago, MG Pat Lynch sent out this photo of an interloper in her salad garden:
|photo by Sam Korper|
A mystery quickly solved, but it kept making me think about masquerades and espionage for some reason. And then this happened. I'm very very sorry.
Quantum of Lettuce
He strolled in, cool as a cucumber and perfectly disguised to infiltrate the party at the Salad Box. "Martini, one radish, shaken not stirred," he told the bartender, and glanced around for his quarry. Black-Seeded Simpson, they called him; he'd likely be shadowed by his bodyguard, the Iceberg.
Collecting his drink, he scouted around the club full of Romainians, half losing money at Radicchio and half enjoying a dinner of speckled trout and deer's tongue. Dodging a couple of drunken women, he came face to face with a lovely lady in a ruffled red dress.
"Lollo Rossa," she introduced herself with a flirtatious smile. "And you… you don't belong here."
"Why do you say that?" he asked, gesturing at his perfectly tailored suit.
She leaned closer. "Your spines," she murmured. "You may hide them from the others, but I can see through your camouflage. Or do you prefer to call them prickles? Spikes? Thorns?"
"I take after a porcupine, Miss Rossa," he said, and added when she lifted an eyebrow: "License to quill."
I'd better not mention, after that, the soporific properties of prickly lettuce, and the latex that oozes from its broken stem. But here's a closeup photo of the spines:
|also by Sam K.|
Wear gloves for this one. Unless you thrive on danger.
Here are some other ways prickly lettuce can disguise itself.