An old wooden barrel at the farmers market contains the most remarkable eggplants. Purple striations lead my eye this way and that, running into the seductive curves of their plump little bodies. Those stems look like the original inspiration for elves' hats in every book of fairy tales that I devoured as a child. Vegetables as objets d'art, too beautiful, too dramatic, too whimsical to eat. What a good thing it is that I don’t like eggplant.