We know the person
who grew this.

We know the hill
it came from.

11°36′N, 76°04′E — not a region. A place.

Most things travel
too far before
they find you.

Something gets lost each time they change hands.
By the time it reaches a shelf, the place it came from is gone.

The soil is gone.
The season is gone.
The name is gone.

What's left is a label.
A weight. A price. Nothing that could tell you
when it was ready or who knew when to cut it.

First Hands.

The person who grew this knew when to cut it.
No one closer to the source exists. Their knowledge is the credential. Their hands were first.