I bought a fistful of organic cherries the other day. As in all things carrying the accolade ‘organic’ it had a pricetag that made my stomach curdle at the check-out counter. It’s not a common fruit from where I come from, so I supposed that organic cherries had the privilage of flying first class and could order a glass of Moet & Chandon to soothe them through the long journey, should they so desire. First class seats may have been too spacious and chilly for the poor things. Maybe they needed to be tucked in under a vintage silk blanket, woven from the silk of a million proud silkworms, which once belonged to a historically significant Chinese empress (the blanket, not the worms).
To minimise my over-indulgence, I invited my Indonesian domestic aid to try it. When she was told how much it cost, she had a response that is typical of Indonesian light-hearted yet sardonic humour, “In my village, if a dying man, was told on his deathbed, that this cherry would save his life, he’d rather succumb to his fate.”
May the ‘organic’ industry have mercy on us all.
image from here