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Farmer's Market in Berkley, California

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On the return plane trip from California, I was reading ‘The Supper of the Lamb” by Robert Capon – a fitting way to finish off my Slow Food pilgrimage in San Fransico. The New York Times describes this book as being a love letter to a world that will always be more delicious than it is useful.

I had a good laugh at his preposterous wisdom.

The question raised was whether the purported sightings meant that we are being visited by intelligent extraterrestrial tourists… Witness the panelist in question. He argued that the sightings involved too many different kinds of space craft to be the work of intelligent beings. True rationality, he insisted, would never produce two versions of anything where one would do.

His brand of reasoning would, if followed, render us all certifiable in a matter of weeks. It would tell the man who can afford three cars that he must, to be truly intellectual, buy three sedans – all Buicks and all black; that if he eats eggs, it is unnecessary to eat them any other way than boiled, and that, if he roasts his lamb, he must, day after day, whittle away at it in its original state until the last tired scrap is laid to rest.

A curse on them all! May an endless variety of worms feed sweetly upon their thrifty little efficiencies. Hell is the only place fit for such dismal crampings of the style of our being. Earth must not be entrusted to such people. Their touch is death to all that is counter, original, strange and spare about us. In their hands, the joy of our randomness and oddness is crushed under the millstones of monotonous consistency (38).

On Monday I leave for California to find out why the songs tell you that it is the perfect place to stand on a hill in the mountain of your dreams.