Sometimes wisdom comes in the shape of a root vegetable.
The turtle was teaching his monthly cooking evening class.
“Welcome, everyone. Today we are making soup.”
Everyone stood at a cooking station, ready to start chopping.
“Soup’s like a story,” he began. “Start with your base — onions, garlic — let them speak before the others arrive. Simmer gently; if it’s boiling, it’s angry. And treat your tools well. Mistreat your pan, your soup will taste it.”
The students nodded, scribbling notes.
He held up a parsnip.
“This is a parsnip. You’ll need one.”
The squirrel raised a paw. “I hate parsnips.”
“Then I’m glad you’re in my class,” said the turtle.
The turtle leaned in.
Everyone went quiet.
“Soup,” said the turtle, “is like football.”
The class blinked.
“Each vegetable plays a position. Onions are in defence. Potatoes in midfield. And the apex predator… is the parsnip.”
The squirrel narrowed her eyes at the root in her paw.
“Imagine you’re facing off against a parsnip. You need to be patient, if you launch into a full-body slide tackle. Maybe you win the ball. But parsnips are tricky. You’ll probably miss — and then what? It’s through on goal. Or worse: free kick, centre pot.”
“This is ridiculous,” muttered the squirrel.
The turtle nodded.
“But in real life, the parsnip isn’t your opponent. It’s your teammate. It wants to be soup. That’s its destiny. You don’t need to fight it — just support it, and it will shine. It’ll be your golden striker.”
He let the words hang, as the soup began to bubble.
“The true enemy,” said the turtle, quietly, “is overcooking. Mishandling. Bruising. Heat with no patience. They’re the ones that’ll thrash your soup.”
A silence settled over the room.
“A parsnip isn’t something you conquer.
It’s something you help become its best self.”
The squirrel cradled her parsnip gently, and whispered, “My golden striker.”
Then, softly, the turtle added:
“When a parsnip is roasted just right…
you can trust it with your life.”
Davide la Locomotive 
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