The “Higher Things” Budget

We are sitting on an old sofa. Liberally covered in dog hair, these cushions have seen better days. The philanthropist himself, an old, half-blind hound, lies dreaming at our feet. “That’s my ‘higher things’ budget,” my friend remarks, pointing to a column on his laptop screen. A discussion of financing the good life has led us down the rabbit hole of half-working spreadsheets we’ve created, alternatives to google, interest rates, savings accounts, calculating average daily gas usage (it’s surprisingly high), and now this—the “higher things” budget.

“What’s that for?” I ask, crossing my legs and taking a deep draft from my coffee mug. 

“Cheese, of course,” he laughs, “And tobacco. And Alcohol.” 

A hardworking man, my friend. A careful saver for an eventual farm. A lover of good parties, of finely bound books, full of hope to raise sheep in the backyard. In a stroke of genius (surely blessed by Bacchus) he determined that certain consumables cannot be put in the regular grocery budget. To justify expenditure on them, they must have their own category—and so these higher things, conducive to friendship, to opening the eyes to the goodness of creation, to the true state of man upon this earth, are bought: an offering to unseen powers.

Come, reader. Let us consider these fine things together. Some say they are useless extravagances. But I say (with all sane men before me) that they are teachers of mysteries, to be revered.

What warmth the word “wine” brings to mind. The ruby liquid—a winter sunset captured in a bottle; a white, summer sun concentrate contained by a cork; rosé, a pourable spring sunrise. Wine brings friends together; not only do you drink it, you may breathe it. It teaches the art of savoring, justly accompanying the savoring of conversation. Too potent to gulp, it reminds one that enjoyment requires moderation. Wine, like friends, also requires patience and time to mature. Wine brings friends together; not only do you drink it, you may breathe it. It teaches the art of savoring, justly accompanying the savoring of conversation. Tweet This

Full of paradox, wine is plant blood made sweet, solid fruit turned to intoxicating liquid. Sipped by kings and drunks alike, it has always been considered a sacred liquid: something about it is greater than the sum of its parts. In such instances, men of ages past knew to keep silent in the presence of the Divine, pouring out, instead of words, a goblet of wine upon the sand in homage. Homeric heroes offer it in silence; Christian priests bless it in a whisper.

As to the second fine thing, think upon a similar transformation. High upon the hills, a cow grazes, preparing to give birth. In a few days, the cowherd, in return for months of care, not only receives a new life in his hands but months of surplus milk. Milk for a calf, easily spilled and spoiled, is then changed to an enduring solid. The cowherd may now toss a hunk of cheese into his satchel; milking season past, the aging cheese in his cellar may tide him over until the next calving. 

Like most men’s minds, cheese improves with age: like mental idiosyncrasy, some may even find that a little mold brings out hidden flavors. This is perhaps one of the virtues that our cheeses teach us: not to discount what seems rotten. Closely related is the virtue of patience: soft and hard cheeses may be obtained by many methods, but (like wine) nearly all require weeks or months of curing. Making cheese is an endeavor requiring foresight.

In third place, tobacco invites man to do the impossible—eat fire with immunity. More than any other form of smoking, a pipe allows man to hold a coal in his hand, to take fire in his mouth and be filled with that third element, icon of God’s wrath. Yet in the pipe, fire is tamed: tobacco becomes an incense of sorts, making men mindful of the gods. Like wine, it is a privileged offering: when they hunted or gathered other gifts from the earth, the Native Americans often left a pinch of the sacred tobacco in thanksgiving.

Like the others, tobacco, too, has virtues to teach. One must pack the tobacco tight, but not too tight. One must draw in conjunction with the matches’ limited flame. And to keep it burning, one must continue to draw not infrequently, otherwise the fire dies. This means that if one is to have a pipe (or a child), one must be willing to interrupt conversation to tend to it. The converse side of this seeming inconvenience is that the tobacco burning in the warm pipe-bowl demands—like cheese and wine—patience and moderation if it is to burn at all.

Lastly, coffee. Oh! fourth companion of these few comforts man may possess in his wanderings upon earth. Like the soil, it is possessed of many shades and flavors. A green bean first, brown when tamed by fire, it becomes more and more like the earth that gave it life until being ground to dust. Watered, coffee too, produces life.

I think of rising early. The darkness of the void presses on the windows of my house. For all I know, there may be nothing but formless waters outside my door. The kettle boils. My French press stands ready. The steamy spirit of water hovers over the soil. I lift the simmering pot and pour. Steam rises, an aroma sprouts, and the blood in my veins moves again.

These four are fruits of human industry and divine blessing. Each earthy. All possessed of a certain warmth. So different in form, so unified in imparting wisdom. 

All are the product of a transformation, a dare, a gamble—shall the grapes rot? Shall the milk spoil? Shall the leaves burn my hand? Shall the earth become liquid delight? Wine relaxes; coffee wakes; cheese nourishes; tobacco calms. Wine ferments; cheese ages; beans are roasted; leaves are dried. Coffee a liquid bean, wine a liquid fruit; cheese solid milk, tobacco a burning plant. Things not entirely of this world.

I stand and brush the dog hair from my pants. “Would you like a refill?” 

“Yes, thanks! There’s also cheese on the counter if you want it.”