Eating is an agricultural act.

I spent a few minutes last night appreciating a red onion grown and handled with exquisite care: the weight of it in my palm, the way the skin crackles as it parts from the firm moist flesh, the crispness of the layers sliced by a sharpened knife in a steady hand. Incredible that something you can select for yourself at your neighborhood co-operative at $2.79 a pound can be as magnificent in its own way as an old cathedral.