This is the thinnings from our carrot patch. Not the HARVEST, mind you, but the THINNINGS—the too-crowded, over-packed, gotta-make-room-for-the-best-ones EXTRA carrots.
This spells trouble, if you ask me. Leave the best carrots in the ground another week or two and you will end up with waste; woody, stringy, bitter carrots that aren't fit for a goat.
Harvest them today, I say! Harvest them, and I will eat them, and there will be no waste. They will be appreciated—no, adored! They will be loved as carrots deserve to be loved, with brayful and lipsmacking fullness of committed sensitivity to their palatable delights. They will be elevated to a new status, consigned to immortality in my memory of their delectable toothsomeness. They will go down in the annals of history as the best carrots in the entire world, the pinnacle achievement of man, the reason apes descended from the trees and the chief objective of the ancient hunter-gatherers-turned-agriculturalists. Dig all that you've sown and give them to me. I will do your harvest honor, I say to FarmWife.
You, she says, must have only a couple. You, she says, are fat. We mustn't, she says, throw you into some sort of insulin-resistant coma.
Even BFFs sometimes disagree.