Monday, July 7, 2008

Food Comatose.

Late last evening, my mind jerked my body. Hai, go to sleep. Tomorrow's Monday. Surrounding yourself with food does that to you, especially if you are the one laboring the land in which its planted, watered, soaked, and harvested. These days, I've forgotten the Gregorian calendar and adopted the sun as my clock.

Pick-days are ostensibly a desultory task. It yields industrialism - box, walk, pluck, box, walk, wash, plastic, box.

However, it is the beauty of what is picked that heightens my senses. No where near is that industrious. The land is an orchestra of colorful instruments, altering its ensemble by changes its its climate. Each crop performs different notes, but combines for a beguiling resonance from interconnecting factors - water, air, soil, sun. This time, it feeds the audience's palette, leaving these now-transformed epicures in standing ovation.

Tonight is the tomato's solo performance. It is not nervous at all.

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