Mea Maxima Pulpa
A seminary in New York City recently made headlines after one of its classes had students confessing their sins to houseplants. You may think the idea of confessing to ferns and philodendrons is silly if not altogether blasphemous. In fact, as we’ve been reliably informed, it’s actually a beautiful ritual that can help seminarian students—and anyone, really—cleanse their bodies and minds of the impurities of plant-based injustice and genocide. We would recommend that anyone seeking to rectify his relationship with the plant world begin this confessional regime, committing to recite it at least four times a day, to start.
To corn: O great and starchy Ear of the World, we heartily confess to having masticated you with reckless abandon—we have consumed your salty popped kernels in movie theaters, boile your cobs for starchy pasta water, and gnawed on your summery sweet flesh at a thousand unjust barbecues. We hereby resolve, by thy corny grace, to cease this thoughtless consumption and venerate you as you were meant to be venerated: Unpicked, unhusked, and ungrilled.
To grass: Supple floor of the plant kingdom, we have done thy green blades great injustice: We have mowed, clipped, whacked, plowed, paved and snipped you as if you were nothing more than an ornamental plot for our amusement and convenience. Nevermore shall we run a Troy-Bilt 140cc 21-inch mower over your precious face. Free you shall be to grow ever skyward in our backyards, sheltering all manner of snakes, rats and other venerated creatures of the underbrush. We will just deal with the bites as best we can.
To oranges: Before thee, O bold and circular coral orb of Floridian majesty, do we supplicate ourselves, atoning for the innumerate breakfasts in which we have juiced thy interior and consumed thy citric meat with nary a thought to thy feelings. We vow therefore to plant one orange tree a day for the rest of our lives—yea, even in the polar climates, in which your fruit can never grow. Only by engaging in such absurdity can we expiate ourselves of the unfathomable sin of orange relish.
To kale: You know what? Nobody confesses anything to kale—it’s an awful plant. If anything, kale should be confessing to us.
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