Three old ladies were sitting side by side in their retirement home reminiscing about the good old days. The air smelled faintly of lavender and boiled cabbage, as it often did around lunchtime.
The first lady, Mabel, with her thick glasses sliding down her nose, leaned forward and said, “Oh, I remember shopping at the green grocer every Friday. He always had the best produce. One day, I saw the biggest zucchini I’d ever laid eyes on!”
She held out her hands dramatically, about two feet apart. “It was this long!”
The second lady, Gertrude, raised an eyebrow. “Two feet? That’s not a zucchini, Mabel. That’s a canoe.”
Mabel chuckled. “I swear on my orthopedic shoes, Gertie, it was real! The thing needed two bags and a prayer to carry it home.”
The third lady, Doris, who had been quietly knitting something that looked suspiciously like a scarf for a giraffe, chimed in. “You think that’s something? I once bought a turnip so big, the green grocer had to weigh it on his bathroom scale.”
Gertrude squinted. “Are you sure it was a turnip? Not a small planet?”
“No,” Doris said proudly. “But NASA did ask for a photo.”
The room burst into laughter.
Not to be outdone, Gertrude smirked. “Well, back in my day, I didn’t need massive vegetables to be impressed. I was dating Harold, the butcher’s son. Strong hands. Very punctual. He once gave me a bouquet made entirely of celery.”
Doris paused her knitting. “You married that guy, right?”
“Briefly,” Gertrude said, sipping her tea. “We divorced after I caught him dicing onions for someone else.”
“Ooh,” Mabel said. “That’s cold. At least mine just left me for a yoga instructor. Said she was more ‘flexible’.”
Doris nodded. “Mine vanished during a bingo game. Took the car, the dog, and the winning card. I haven’t forgiven him—or the dog.”
They all sat in silence for a moment, then Mabel piped up, “Anyway, back to the zucchini…”
“Oh no,” Doris groaned. “She’s still on about the zucchini.”
Mabel ignored her. “The grocer said it was grown with love, sunlight, and a suspicious amount of chicken manure. I roasted it for Sunday dinner. Took six hours. Needed two ovens and a neighbor’s backup casserole dish.”
Gertrude said, “Did it taste good?”
“No idea. Fell asleep before it finished. When I woke up, the dog had eaten half of it and was dreaming in Italian.”
More laughter.
Just then, Nurse Janet passed by, smiled at the ladies, and asked, “You ladies doing alright?”
“Oh yes,” Gertrude said. “Just discussing world records and failed romances.”
Janet raised an eyebrow but didn’t pry. After all, in this retirement home, anything was possible. Last week, someone smuggled in a karaoke machine and the night nurse had to confiscate it after midnight yodeling.
As the nurse walked away, Doris leaned in. “You know, if we combined our stories, we could publish a book.”
“Sure,” said Gertrude. “We’ll call it Fifty Shades of Produce.”
“Or Gone with the Garden,” Mabel offered.
“I vote The Zucchini Diaries,” Doris said, lifting her knitting triumphantly. “And this scarf? It’s not for a giraffe. It’s for the zucchini statue I’m making.”
They all stared at her.
“You kept it?”
“It’s in the freezer. Harold never took that with him.”
