Dear Freakin’ Chestnuts of Doom,
You tricked me into buying you. I saw you in that bin at the grocery store, all shiny and pretty as unshelled nuts generally are. Ninety-nine cents a pound! You probably knew that I can rarely pass by anything under a dollar – especially something new and exciting. I had never eaten you, but just the mention of your name brought to mind Nat King Cole singing “The Christmas Song” and chestnut vendors on the streets of New York during Christmas in the early twentieth century. These romantic ideas coupled with the seemingly cheap price all but forced me to buy two whole pounds of you.
I now understand why you were so inexpensive. Your shells are made of some sort of nature-made forcefield, and that horridly stringy skin under the shell is ten times harder to take off than your shells. I’ve followed all directions on how to roast and peel you and I’ve yet to harvest one whole nut. I’m currently wondering how people even figured out that you were edible in the first place. I suspect there was divine revelation involved.
Well, I give up, Freakin’ Chestnuts of Doom. I’ve already wasted too much time trying to peel you. I need to go clean my room now. And you need to go to your new room AKA the trash can.
P.S. You owe me two bucks. Seriously.