Brussels's sprouts always looked like mini-brains to me. I've always had issues with foods reminding me of other things. The insides of oranges have an uncanny resemblance to that gelatinous fungus that grows on damp wood that, when you touch it, causes your whole hand to writhe and convulse from the alien texture. Corn on the cob, with its hairy tassel and finely parallel-striped cloak still reminds me of a wild haired man in a zoot suit. Thinking of stripping off that suit to reveal the bumpy alien landscape underneath still makes me hesitate when I disrobe. Tomato slices, with their semi-rigid and lighter-hued skeletal system and infestation of seeds floating in a sea of slime evoke thoughts of muscle mass at a microscopic magnitude. Biting into one causes a shift in the point of view of my mind's eye to the third person as a huge white ceramic blade cleaves the raw, red flesh, decimating everything in its path before shifting it to the ever-grinding grist mill for the next step in processing. I'm hungry.