It's Not Delivery; It's DiGiorno! Wheat Futures in Record Territory

Eat pizza, boost economy.


From the Wall Street Journal:

The little-known Minneapolis Grain Exchange is suddenly one of the hottest spots in the global financial markets as the price of its flagship commodity -- the wheat used to make bread and pizza crust -- shatters records, enriching farmers and fueling fears about shortages.

What a photograph. Kudos, Associated Press. What range! What expression, played out across the faces of these honest Minnesotan folk. Monumental triumph, anticipation, earth-shattering restraint! All come crashing out of the great solution of human emotion, drawn down by the prospect of wheat futures.

However! While Bald, Portly Gentleman in Blue brings us a certain joy with his irrespressible personal optimism, Purple Shirt, Yellow Jacket (aka the guy from Ferris Bueller?) does well to exercise caution. Fear runs in rivulets, out there in the trading pits. Unprecedented volatility draws disbelief and worries of market collapse.

Keep an eye on this one.

The Moonstone

LOST: Silver bracelet, set with moonstone jewel.

(If the title of this post got you all hopped up and ready for a riveting discussion of the 1868 Wilkie Collins novel of the same name, apologies. The book happens to be sitting on my desk. As soon as I do finish it, I'll write something up.)

This post is actually about a recent minor catastrophe. I lost my moonstone. Years ago, a Hindu astrologer, having channeled the dictates of various star charts and arcane numerological calculations of unassailable veracity, determined that I should wear a moonstone as my birthstone, and also that I should beware my coworkers, for they are untrustworthy.

Well you take the good with the bad, and there you have it. I have worn a moonstone on my wrist ever since, and in the back of my mind there ever lurks a dim mistrust of officemates.

One's birthstone is a thing of some importance in my family. It is the single object that belongs to one from birth, sort of a spiritual possession. I am particularly fond of moonstone in general: it's a cloudy sort of stone, and holds light in a calm sort of way; a soothing foil to the skittish brilliance of other cut stones. The bracelet I've been wearing every moment for the past 2.5 years was made for me in India--commissioned by my mother from a prominent Calcutta jeweler, its authenticity guaranteed by a threat of professional exposure by her daughter, the Harvard geologist (I loved this -- thanks Mom).

And I lost it. Lost it! Yesterday, between shopping for groceries and walking to the bank. So, for the past two days I have been (a) methodically retracing my every step from Saturday 1pm to 530pm, and (b) struggling to convince myself that my identity has not been lessened or lost, though the stone is beyond my sight.

In my anxiety for bracelet-recovery, I trudged up and down 53rd street, left phone numbers with every store I had entered, then drove to Target Store #3722 and wheeled my way through each and every aisle, scanning the floors for a glimmer or shine. I resigned myself; the bracelet is probably lost.

And yet this afternoon, I realized that I'd been fundamentally going about this the wrong way. Having realized that, I became free to go about this the right way. I have decided that my bracelet, being part of my identity, has been granted a traveling allowance. It is now free to roam, to see the world on my behalf. It may even see in the inside of a pawn shop -- a most interesting locale.

Having settled that, I should address the sole lingering worry. The lasting failure here, in losing this bracelet, revolves around plans I held for the distant future. A notion of posterity, of heirloom, of future's interest in past. I imagined this piece would be passed down in the family collection for at least two generations, and that someone would show my grandchildren the jewel that their grandmother wore at her wrist. Well, that's out. So:

Dear grandchildren,

The bracelet is made of sterling silver chain, with five or six rings and a hook at the ends; it is set with an oval-cut moonstone sized at about half an inch the long way. It was lost in Chicago in 2008. Go find it. Check the local pawn shops.

But I know you won't find it, because I didn't, and I looked all over the place. Ah well. Don't obsess, brush your teeth; eat oatmeal, it does wonders. And if you don't know what a moonstone is, look it up, for shame.

There ends my converse with the future, for now. I have addressed all my major concerns in this affair, and therefore close the document with a heavy sigh, last tribute to lost treasure. From here on out, I look to the next moonstone (there will be a next), and I'll be sure to let you know when I get it.

Goodnight,
RP