Last night we had jicama with our dinner. It was my first time to eat this root vegetable native to Mexico and South America. The word is pronounced hick-uh-muh. So my brain has been turning this old nursery rhyme round and round all day long.
Nutkin became more and more impertinent—
"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!
Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's kitchen door;
All the King's horses, and all the King's men,
Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,
Off the King's kitchen door."
Nutkin danced up and down like a sunbeam; but still Old Brown said nothing at all.
I didn't read it in The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin until I had children of my own, but I can remember countless hours spent over volume ten, the poetry volume, of Junior Classics.
Tonight in the kitchen I had another nursery rhyme escapade. I felt like the farmer's wife with my carving knife.
Little tails complete with red juice! Oh dear, I may have a hard time eating my little mice tonight.
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