How many peppers in a pile does it take for the pile to be come something more than a pile of peppers?
Grocery run.
Gotta pick up a few things.
Gonna run in for a minute, get out, get home.
I get milk for coffee.
I find the yogurt my wife likes.
I snag a bag of udon noodles.
Then I head for the produce section. Lettuce, radishes, scallions:
I’m very pro about what can grow, so into my cart they go.
But at the bin for green peppers, I spot something I’ve never seen before in a grocery store. I discover a “see also”.
Remember when the majority of words you read each day appeared on paper? If you’re of a certain age, you may recall often using books for things like definitions, indices for finding valuable information in larger works, or annotated bibliographies for summaries of research materials. “See also” was (and still is!) a editor’s note of direction pointing a reader toward a supporting piece of information. It usually points to something related indirectly to the main subject, rather than pointing at a direct continuation of the thing you may have been researching. Say you’re looking up information about how to build a skyscraper. A “see also” might point you to a write-up about how to build a bridge, considering the obvious similarities of subjects and methods.
But back to the peppers. On a small sign next to the torpedo-shaped jalapeños, the fireball habaneros, and the windsock Anaheims it said, “Hatch peppers on sale. See salad bar.”
That was the “See also”, and that, of course, didn’t make much sense.
In 4th grade, I loved my dinky school library (shout out to West Creek Hills Elementary School). With the enthusiasm that only youthful optimism can describe, I recall how just about every “See also” tantalized with it’s potential to point me at a bit of revelatory text about dinosaurs, or galaxies, or Superman if only I followed the reference to the “also”.
I walked over to the salad bar.
Instead of containers of dubiously wilted salad components, the entire mesa had been cleared out and temporarily replaced by a mountain of hatch peppers. Hundreds and hundreds covered the surface, framed on opposite ends with a pair of informal signs that read “Hatch Pepper Sale .99¢ per Lb.” I had passed it obliviously when I entered the store, singularly intent on my mission to get in and get out. But now the peppers were more than peppers. They were a surprise.
The scene was a little strange, in fact. It was odd to see so many peppers in a such a big pile, spread across nearly ten feet of tabletop. It also became several things at the same time. In one way the scene was singular, a mass of tangled, elongated green shapes connected into one unified object: a pepper sculpture. In another way it showcased a profoundly beautiful way of seeing nuances and differences of so many things that appeared the same, but were actually distinct and unique: peppers as stars in the infinite sky.
“Can I help you?”
A store clerk had come over, curious. After all, I had circled the table, bent down, stood back, stood still, circled again.
“The pile of peppers just caught my attention,” I said. “They’re sort of dramatic presented like this.” I was concerned about making him uncomfortable, a weirdo customer ogling a pile of ordinary hatch peppers as if they were ancient runes. But something else happened instead. Standing still, he folded his arms and looked at the table, silently appraising the table of produce he obviously saw sitting there all day.
“It’s true,” he said, suddenly contemplative. “It’s like they’re all one thing. Or one thing made of a million smaller things just like themselves.” He paused, thinking, seeing. Then, suddenly: “Kind of beautiful, right?”
I looked at him quickly, then back at the peppers, careful not to disturb the unexpected spell. “Definitely beautiful,” I said. “Much more than just a mountain of peppers.”
“Yes,” he said. “When you put it like that: yes. They are.”