A Midwinter Night’s Carb-Dream: Nutmeg McChunky and the Infinity Salad

It was December 24th, three yards underground.

The ambient temperature in the burrow was a balmy 38° Fahrenheit. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and forty slumbering rodents.

Deep within the pile, wedged tightly between the rhythmic snoring of Ol’ Whiskers and the bony elbow of Master Squeak Windwhisker, lay Nutmeg McChunky.

In reality, Nutmeg was a furry, metabolically suspended sphere. His heart beat only four times a minute. He was, for all scientific intents and purposes, a fuzzy hockey puck waiting for spring.

But inside Nutmeg’s brain? It was a high-def technicolor calorie-fest of epic proportions.

The Ballad of the Infinity Salad: An Epic of Nutmeg McChunky

Beneath the frost and mountain stone,
Where the cold winds of winter moan,
Within a burrow, dark and deep,
Forty marmots lay asleep.
The air was thick with damp and fur,
A silent sleeping marmot blur,
Save for the rhythmic, muffled snore
Of Ol’ Whiskers on the earthen floor.

The Hero’s Slumber

Deep in the pile, a rounded sphere,
Who hadn’t seen the sun all year,
Lay Nutmeg, famed for girth and weight,
In a suspended, puck-like state.
His heart gave out a lonely beat,
Just four a minute, slow and sweet,
But while his body stayed quiet and still,
His mind was climbing up a hill.

For in the theater of his brain,
He stood upon a golden plain.
No dirt was here, no granite gray,
But mountains made of Timothy hay!
The roads were paved in alfalfa green,
The finest sight he’d ever seen,
But far away, a light did loom:
The legendary Apex Bloom.

The Quest for the Golden Orb

A Dandelion, vast and bright,
A Volkswagen of green delight!
Its yellow head, a fluffy sun,
Signaled the feast had just begun.
“Mine!” cried Nutmeg to the sky,
With hunger in his dreaming eye,
And though he could not walk or run,
He rotated toward the blinding sun.

Schlorp, schlorp, schlorp, he rolled along,
A hero stout, a hero strong,
Until a specter barred his way,
To ruin Nutmeg’s holiday.
In pirate hat and thistle blade,
Cap’n Cheeks stood in the shade.
“Arrr!” he cried, “Ye tubby knave!
Surrender seeds or meet the grave!”

The Trial of the Pirate

“I have no seeds!” our hero wailed,
As toward the bloom he slowly sailed.
“Then dance!” the Captain gave a shout,
“And turn your heavy frame about!”
In the burrow, Nutmeg’s leg gave flight,
A violent twitch into the night,
Which in the dream became a roll,
That crushed the pirate, body and soul.

Through fields of fluff and nectar sweet,
He neared the prize he longed to eat.
He unhinged jaws, he took his stance,
To lead the great Dandelion dance.
He lunged! He bit! The crunch was grand!
The finest meal in all the land!
The nectar flowed like honeyed wine,
For one brief second, all was fine.

The Rude Awakening

But real-world physics are a beast,
And they do not respect a feast.
That heroic kick, so fierce and bold,
Had struck a neighbor in the cold.
Mossback McGrump, with a startled huff,
Decided that he had had enough.
He shoved back hard with a grumbly groan,
And sent poor Nutmeg off his throne.

The dream dissolved, the gold turned black.
The dandelion won’t be back.
The heart rate climbed to twelve or more,
As Nutmeg woke upon the floor.
No giant flower, no sweet nectar flow,
Just forty relatives in a row,
And the smell of damp and earthy dust,
In which a marmot puts his trust.

He closed his eyes and tried to weep,
Then settled back for a four-month sleep,
Praying that Christmas might bring again
The Infinity Salad and the alfalfa plain.

Merry Christmas from the hibernating marmot crew, celebrating responsibly by lowering heart rates and canceling consciousness.