It was not that Sam didn't appreciate his mom cooking a nutritious meal.  He loved food.  But the corn dancing the Tarantella around his mashed potatoes made him cross-eyed and dizzy. Last night the broccoli, lying like fallen oaks on his plate, actually waved their little branches at him.  He was sure he had seen them out of the corner of his eye. Tonight, the peas' persistent wrinkled smiles unnerved him.

"Sam, your food is getting cold," said Mom. "Quit playing with it and eat."

"Yeah, but...Mom, I'm not playing with it. It's...playing with me."

"Right. And pigs can fly," said Mom as she got up to put her dishes in the sink. "Just eat."

Sam looked out the window and sighed. How was he ever going to eat those peas?  Lifting his fork to spear the little spheres, he returned his attention to the task at hand.  Only three peas were left, sitting on the edge of his plate. They grinned, waved and dropped to the table to follow the line of peas marching to the corner where they slipped over the side and shimmied down the leg disappearing into the air duct.