There is a great deal of passion all over town, and all over the place, especially in the upper middle class where passion is at such an all-time high that it threatens to overwhelm what indifference there is left in the world. People are passionate about the food that they eat (organic). They are passionate about their beer (artisanal) - or their Kombucha (GT’s, Pur, Rise). People are passionate about their fitness routine (Lululemon, Löle, cross-fit) and people are passionate about their moustache (twirled and waxed). Some are passionate about dogs (doggy jackets in the winter) and some are passionate about cats (it begins with one, then you acquire another and then another, and then the cats have taken over). People are passionate about bikes and now ride ones without brakes because being a public hazard and a danger to oneself is most passionate of all. You no longer ask someone what they do. You ask: “What are you passionate about?” The more bizarre the answer, the greater the passion.
Some years ago, I went out with a man who either voluntarily or in response to a frank question declared: “I don’t have any passions.” Perhaps sensing my opprobrium, he corrected himself a minute later and exclaimed “I am passionate about fireworks!” That killed it. What? Did he feel waves of passion coursing through him as the colors exploded in the sky?
The passion frenzy has now reached a summit from which, I hope, the direction can only be decline: an advertisement recently alighted at metro Lasalle featuring a young lass with an armful of potatoes and a manic smile next to the caption “Passionnés des patates.” Passionate about potatoes. There you have it.
Now that we have passionately reached rock bottom, let us rise again, like kambucha, and rediscover what passion is: action, not consumption. And this can be channeled into potatoes. Last Sunday, the line-up in front of La Banquise reached new lengths and only kept getting longer. If you’re passionate, you’ve got to make an effort.