Turtle Stove

I had a plastic oven shaped like a turtle. Green, like a turtle. Except that turtles aren't green. Green like we think a turtle ought to be. Green, because turtles are green animals. Things without feathers or fur are always red or green. Lobsters: red. Crabs: red. Snakes: green. Turtles: green. The oven wasn't a real oven, which is probably why it went so well with the turtle. Why bother to have a realistic oven, if you aren't even bothering with the realism of the turtle in whom you have implanted the oven? And why put those two things together? Who thought, "Hey, I know! We'll make a plastic turtle, and have it sort of squatting on his haunches, rearing up, because that's what turtles do. Then, inside the belly of the turtle, we'll put a fake oven!" But someone did. The turtle squatted on his hind legs, displaying his aproned bellly with the door inside opening cozily into a plastic, non-functional oven. His chef's hat sat at a jaunty angle on his round green head, encouraging me to cram pans of fake cookies into his midsection. I do not know why my parents bought this stove. It was useless and taught me nothing. Nothing about turtles, and nothing about cooking. 0 for 2. And yet, I loved it. Perhaps I loved it because my brother, who loved real turtles, also loved setting fire to things. And he had set a small fire in the belly of the green turtle oven. And turned it black. And imperfect. Like a real turtle.