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Dry-roasted-salted-cashews, my energy booster for mid-morning snacks, eventually led to researching this critical food for enhancement of organ functioning. Craving more of these delectable nuts signals low blood pressure, so I’m crunching away as I write—only they’re not nuts. More properly, they’re called seeds.

Grown from fruit trees with rich foliage, the dun-colored seeds encased in two thick shells, emerge from the bottom of what looks like red shriveled apples when ripe, between February through May.

YouTube of past harvests show natives seated on the ground, straining to separate the seeds from the fruits; others, weakened by the humidity and heat, involved in the multiple phases of production—all, strenuous work, required before filling porcelain bowls of wealthy colonialists in Brazil, Goa, and India in their sitting rooms. Today, machines and uniformed workers handle the cashew harvests in different parts of the subtropical world.

What also prompted this inquiry were the acknowledgements printed on the Whole Foods bag of cashews, near my computer; among them was the Product of Vietnam. Only in 1989 did this government recognize the industrial value of their cashews and included their production and export in the Ministry of Agriculture. It now holds fifty-eight percent of the world market, outstripping Brazil and India with its sixty-two factories, its machines locally made and serviced. This country holds fifty-eight percent of the world market, outstripping Brazil and India with its sixty-two factories, its machines locally made.

Discovered as edible by Brazilian natives in the sixteenth century, cashews have been around a long time, still a viable source of nutrition afforded us by Creator God.

It was not just lunch, but a colorwheel of nutrition: varied greens of steamed kale, asparagus, and zucchini, orange of carrot slices, brushed gold of chicken patty, white of sliced apples with rosy skins, and buttered seeds-and-grain-toast, served upon a Botanical Garden dinner plate.

What caught my eye, though, were the zucchini slices, each patterned with small flower-like seeds filling three distinct segments—Such uniformity spoke of the hidden hand of Creator God, also empowering other hands—growers, pickers, processors, truckers, handlers filling bins at super markets, those of my personal shopper Linda and my caregiver Sharon—to provide this nutritious lunch for my waning heath.

Such ruminations stem from my continued study of Mary Oliver. In her poem Sometimes, she writes:

Instructions for living life://Pay attention./Be astonished./Tell about it. 

Because this daily imperative impresses itself upon me, the Heartwhisperings blogs continue. This is not of my doing, I assure you.


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