Warthogs & Plumroots

Daddy's eating waffles in the dining room--one diamond-shaped waffle and one strip of bacon.  "Daddy, that will not do, there are supposed to be two."  So back to the kitchen I must go, in search of his second strip.  I find Kurtis in the kitchen--which has suddenly become an office--instead of in the sink (his weekend post).  I pretend I'm not searching for the lost bacon, instead gravitating to the odd bush in the middle of the room.  It looks just like an inverted purple ginger plant, and I yank off a chunk, peeling it like a potato.  Imagine my surprise: the tuber tastes just like a plum, juices running down my arm.  I follow the drips with my eye and notice the warthog at my ankles.  It's sucking at my skin (I can feel its nostrils like little suction cups), insatiably hungry for my scent.  His tusks press gently on my calves, nostrils trying to grab hold, but it's not enough; that's as close as he can get.  I walk away.  He follows, snout pressed to my skin; I have a warthog for a friend.  Back in the dining room I offer the strange new fruit root (root fruit?) I discovered while looking for the bacon.  ...Or has the bacon been looking for me?