I am faced with a conundrum. A query, a question an insurmountable mountain of doubt and indecision. Because I love love LOVE zucchini flowers, predictably stuffed with goat curd and fried in a crispy coating, a classic combination that will never grow naff or tired in my eyes. But if I eat them now I won't experience the satisfaction of a full-grown, adult-sized zucchini. No prize winning, beribboned behemoths to show at the fair. No green-tinged frittata or ratatouille at the height of summer. Nothing with which to assuage my latent penis-envy. And besides, it feels a little bit like eating a baby, especially when you've witnessed the tender little shoots first poke their soft little heads through the soil. You feel like a cannibal midwife, your hideous gaping maw salivating over succulent flesh. Nightmarish stuff!
So I daily count my intended victims, waiting for the day they number enough for a meal. And they sleep innocent of my plotting, beneath their shady leaves, on their cosy beds of mulch.
Happily, should I hesitate long enough, the decision will be taken out of my hands as my vulnerable little pups enter adulthood. Like Humbert Humbert losing his lust for a grown up Lolita, suddenly a delectable flower will be nothing more than soggy green veg.