Honeydew is the money melon

Last weekend, I was introduced to a coffee shop by a friend who is sort of my partner in crime when it comes to a well roasted bean. In fact, the early days of our friendship brewed over espresso. "You're going to love this place. I know you're on a tight schedule but I can't let you go without trying this," he insisted. If there is one thing in this world for which I will make sacrifices, that which I cannot sacrifice in itself, it is a good cup of coffee. Upon entering, I was immediately moved by the interior design; it was simple and sophisticated. A classy warehouse feel. Classy because it wasn't a cluttered storage facility. The shelves were instead lined with a select few boxes, to establish mood. The vast open space had an unexpected way of filling the space with warmth.

I couldn't help but stop to take it all in. "Oh yeah, I forgot. You're a tourist," my friend joked. "Okay order, order." His enthusiasm is sometimes uncontainable. There wasn't a menu in sight, but my coffee preferences are not especially dynamic, anyway. "A nonfat latte please." The cashier looked at me sympathetically. There may have even been a twinge of pity. She knew I had never been there before. My order had been a dead give-away, akin to ordering a "small" at Starbucks. "We don't have nonfat milk, only soy or whole," she said. It wasn't apologetic. It was more just matter-of-fact. My friend whispered that this was one of those places that would only serve what they thought tasted good. One that didn't trust consumers to make the best gustatory decision. "They probably don't want you to ruin the taste," he offered. I deferred to soy.

The latte was delicious; that is undeniable. But the company's resolute commitment to quality, and that to, quality over quantity, was inspiring.

If there is one thing in this world that could parallel my love affair with coffee, it would be seasonal fruit: Succulent strawberries, blueberries bleeding purple, sweet but firm peaches. That same day, the day of the coffee shop, I was doing some writing at a cafe while waiting for my friend. I ordered a bowl of seasonal fruit, expecting the aforementioned bursts of flavor. Moments later, a bowl of disappointment was set down in front of me. A sprinkle of blueberries and strawberries garnished what was primarily a bowl of honeydew melon.

(Aside: Does anyone actually like honeydew melon? In my humble opinion, it's widespread prevalence is completely indirectly correlated with its popularity. It's just cheap and available year-round. What a pathetic excuse of a fruit. There's no winning with honeydew melon. It's either overripe mush or hard as plastic. That it can be allowed to socialize with the real fruits is infuriating to me. It is nothing but a filler fruit.)

I took my time picking out the berries and eating them one at a time, especially careful not to combine. Few and far between, I made the additional effort to chew slowly and enjoy the taste of each one. (I of course left the honeydew melon. Miserable fruits, as they are.)

When it comes to seasonal fruit, this particular cafe (and most with "seasonal fruit" on their menus), springs for a cheap variety, which beyond adding some color was ineffective and perhaps even counterproductive when it came to taste. The more, the less merry, in this case.

In high school, I was involved with a service organization that documented the experiences of World War II veterans in short, five-minute videos. The videos were a mix of photos pieced together using video transitions, along with short video clips. I still remember the moment I discovered how to successfully incorporate video transitions in Adobe Premiere. And the options were endless. From cross-dissolve to page-peel to zooms and fades, I was that kid in a candy shop. I used almost every single one of those transitions in my first video. What I found surprising back then, however, was that our organization leader was less than moved when it came time to view my masterpiece. "There are way too many distracting transitions in here. I can't focus on the storyline," he stated stoically. It was a large pill for me to swallow, especially given my general insecurities when it came to anything involving a computer. Looking back, I admit that if a video could have been diagnosed with schizophrenia, this one would have made the cut.

It took several videos before I finally understood the art behind creating these documentaries: Every decision was in an effort to establish a specific sentiment by direct attention to the narration and imagery. As an amateur, I had wanted to show off every tool I had discovered all at once. Every transition. To show everything I had learned with all my cards on the table.

In our world today, for the most part, answers can be instantly or at least rapidly discovered, leading us to feel a burdening pressure to know and show it all. We think that by addressing everything, we can guarantee perfection. Create an indestructible thesis. If you ask me, though, half of the beauty lies in that which is not presented outright. That which allows for wondering, for imagination, for further discovery. Elimination is your way of establishing knowledge -- it demonstrates the sophistication of summary. It encourages focus.

Force yourself to turn down the noise in the different aspects of your life. From your social life to your activities to your work. To focus and help others focus. Make yourself known for few things, but doing those few things well. This is the only way we as individuals, and as society, will ever achieve anything of worth, to harvest the sweetest fruit, if you will. Because let's face it. There's enough honeydew melon in this world already, and we certainly don't need anymore.