I kneeled and pulled the first beet. It was no bigger than a grape, but I ate it, including the dirt residue and much of the stalk. I pulled another, and another, knowing I was ruining the crop, eating it before it had any real value, but I could not stop. The dirt crunched between my teeth, a grit both insufferable and somehow pleasurable, and soon, inexplicably, I was scooping handfuls of the soil into my mouth. The act was both so wrong and so right—I began to cry, overwhelmed by confusion. The tears salted the dirt as I licked my filthy palms. The baby kicked ferociously as if asking for
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This is starvation!
