Around the time I ate an eyeball but before I battled celery I had secretly been contemplating considering maybe thinking about launching a sneak attack on onions. On my own. Because it was my decision. Not because my dad bribed me. Not because Lauren’s mom snuck them into a casserole. Not because anyone bullied me into it. But because I believe in me and I’ve accomplished, with varying degrees of success, virtually every goal I set for myself during this war and the only thing left to do, the only vegetable left still hanging over my head, was the onion. However, onions aren’t on the list. Of course. And not only aren’t onions on the list, the onion is the one vegetable I specifically shouldn’t have to eat, according to me. According to the rules. But I didn’t think any of this mattered because of the part of the rules where I make up the rules and I can do whatever the fuck I want.
Once I realized what I needed to do to put the nail in the coffin of this war, I began dropping very obvious hints to friends, family, perfect strangers, the farmers’ market tap root lady, anyone who would listen, that my VV Day—victory over vegetables—would be spectacular. Tap Root Lady found this extremely uninteresting, but everyone else agreed to meet at my house to watch me torture myself for Julie Versus Vegetables’ last meal. Cage Match Fight to the Death with Onions—the battle of the year, the most defining battle of the war—was on.
But all that hint dropping and smack talking took place before termites on a log happened and cut me at my knees. My confidence faltered. Significantly. Crap.
To keep my head in the game, I needed everything to run smoothly on Onion Night and for that my best line of defense would be to hit onions with everything I’ve got, everything I’ve learned over the last year, and show them no vegetable, not even onions, would get the best of me. I cannot be beaten. I had a very advanced, intelligent, four-point plan, each point of which was essential to winning the whole night, and really, the whole war (no pressure, Julie): build a sturdy, well-planned menu where the onion was nowhere near the main feature; take a chaperone with me to the farmers’ market; schedule the evening so the multiple moving parts wouldn’t fluster me and I could both entertain and eat—at a reasonable hour; and most importantly of all, beer batter and deep fry the onions. If I did all those things well, the chances of me winning onions were slightly better than bad.