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Mmmm, onions.

I love onions. Some people have garlic as their major seasoning of choice; I have onions. Green onions, white onions, chives... onions. Stew. Salad. My lovely turkey chowder. Powdered. Cooked. In small amounts, thinly sliced on salad, neutralized with salt and vinegar, raw.

Unfortunately... whenever I eat more than a threshold amount of onion, it gets into my bloodstream or something, because the next thing I know, my entire body smells vaguely of onion, for the next several days. Not my breath, my entire body. I sweat onion, even though I seem to be the only one fine-tuned enough to notice it. And that does not please me. I first noticed this my teenage years, right in the summer of 1996, the summer my father showed me how to make the perfect salad.

One more flaw in the illusion of perfection.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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