Ode to a Parsnip

The carrot a close cousin to these ridged, tasty roots.

Above the ground it wears a hat, and below it grows a root.

Animals delight its taste, from deer to bird to roo.

Mistaken oft for something else within the deep and murky,

Some look and cry “a turnip, lo!” their brains lost in the murk.

This vegetable with sweet, fall scent breaks each and every mur.

In a laden pot it goes, directed by brave cooks.

Stewing, soaking in a broth with friends it seeks to cook.

And when it gently rests on plates, hungry mouths oft coo.

One soothing bite when salted right draws forth a sigh angelic.

The parsnip’s taste a booming voice: in Greek known as “Angeli.”

Each bite replete with earthen spice, sought even by the angel.