Wince

The onions winced instead of us, because we wielded too large a knife, and our hands seemed too certain they should be cut. What if we had, instead, put the onions in baby carriages, brought them to the nursery under the cover of night. Would our parents find out we had children, and would they be disappointed that they turned out to be just like us? We should see how many layers they have instead of dicing them into bits. The color underneath might be gold, something we value, rather than a ingredient of our already too spicy lives.