My not-quite-so indifference toward one-touch brewing syndrome. Or what one may call the vending machine theory. Instant results may provide instant gratification, but the quality or lasting effects of such gratification is not warranted nor guaranteed.
Drinking coffee goes beyond the mere end-result. It encompasses the grinding, the tamping, the pre-heating, the crema, the noise. It encompasses the conscience of the experience as an entire matter.
The all-encompassing world may not be much different. One-touch anything provides gratification in an on-demand world, where efficiencies are bolstered at the cost of the conscience of the experience. Results. Results. Now.
We are not a vending machine society.
One day you wake up and realize that the mundane itself is the daily norm. Norms, you find, are composed of the mundane, the repetitive, the on-going.
I often see the perils of scripting a culture based on occasional spectaculars. Fireworks for the people that bewilder the eyes but minds that shudder at the thought of returning to the every-day.
Sensationalism, as a way of selling a food culture, has become, dare I say, sensational. This is done at the cost of accurately portraying the real people and their mundanes. Show the mundanes, because they are the people. Fireworks glitter once, twice a year, but they die down and are forgotten. The kitchen stove that births daily dinners and to-go lunches are daily grinds, are non-spectacles, but they’re there. And they’re the people.
Don’t mind the every-day. Or the mundane.
Stepping into the unknown is an exciting exchange of thought and process. But when lives are at stake – living things, like breathing, growing plants – the weight of that first step is multiplied.
Who would have thought that the very soil beneath one’s feet could feel so foreign. It was there, all along, but it wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. To know.
I don’t know what makes the ground “soil”. I don’t know its needs, its wants. Don’t know if it has its needs or its wants. Who am I to determine its wants, or to ask, anyway.
Who would have known that the earth is so compact, united, in strength and density, against all downward forces put upon by punishing steel and wood. The earth we stand on exudes its strength towards us unknown inhabitants, habitually lost, continuously divided.
To know, I tilled the soil to, supposedly, allow it to breathe. This, I suppose, was because I assumed that it was not breathing all along, long before my time, before my mind, to know, was put to action. I opened two bags of top soil and spread its contents over the tilled land. The soil contains compost, so it says.
Rotten things for sale.