Food for Thought
You and I, we sit down at our favorite coffee shop and as every time the chef barista —let’s call him Fred — pours us the most lovely of cappuccinos, complete with late art — a swan hunting a swallow hunting a bee —and it’s almost more poem than coffee. Not this morning or any other morning do we feel the need to say: Fred, do step aside. You’ve made me all those cappuccinos, some better, some okay, some pixel-perfect — it’s time that I make you one of those.
How come we hardly ever listen to someone’s opinion, just listen, without sharing all of our own thoughts, and then some?
We read the beer tasting notes and learn about where the hops was grown, how the water was treated, and the exact temperature its been fermented at. Did you also notice the slight dash of citrus acidity and the mangoesque-quality of its amber shine?
How come we can’t be bothered to ask a single fucking question before replying to this moron on twitter that he is WRONG and only a half-brained monkey could draw such a conclusion!
We signal the waiter with one hand that all is fine while gargling some water. Unfortunately, that slightly burnt taste from those wedges won’t leave our tongue. Oh well, no biggie —shit happens. I mean, no one is out to poison us, right? Don’t be silly.
How come without fail or hesitation we assume the VERY WORST when someone says anything that can be read in more than one way — as anything can?
Of course we didn’t want everyone to know that this was the first time we ever sipped a half-decent wine in our lives, silly really — but we also don’t pretend to be sommeliers since ’92. We stay a bit on the side line, maybe, mumble something about tannin and feel both smart and stupid. Leave the fancy folk to their monologue about how this one can’t compare to the ’12 second harvest, no chance!
How come we blast someone after reading 160 characters — a negligible excerpt of all that they ever wrote and ever said and ever thought. That minuscule, miserable, missingsomething picture from an ugly angle and with a broken lens of who they are?
I wish
we’d think more like we taste
and talk more like we eat.