A friend of mine once commented that sprouting beans and eating them was such a heartless thing to do. You soak the hard, dried seeds in water, and once they are soft and plump you drain them and let them sit in a warm, sunny place till they develop their radicals and plumules. How their hearts must be soaring as they germinate — hoping to be sowed into soil, hoping to become full mature plants. And what do you do instead? You eat them up! You eat them raw, or steamed, or boiled, or, the most brutal of all, you pressure cook them. So heartless!
And so everytime I sprout beans, I remember my friend’s idiosyncratic comment, and there is villainous laughter when they go down my gullet, as I think of their crushed dreams. But, in my defense, I also admire their perfection every single time. Nature may think of germination as one of her low level, garden variety (pun intended), plain vanilla miracles, but it is a miracle nonetheless.
(Other perfect objects can be found here.)