Fetish is a spoiled cabbage

Lintel (as 'threshold' < L. limin-): "To suggest rather than to state, to make a crossroads of each word in the street of sentences. Something new will always come to light if texts are dissected ad infinitum, and in this all written works - and not just those of genius, as some have claimed in error - resemble the works of nature."

- Alfred Jarry

Of course, we are all well aware that the young cabbage is a child, snipped off and snapped up before maturation 's even formed a concept. It takes a different sort of cabbage farm to produce the seeds for tomorrow's soup pot, one on which the young are tended and nurtured so they can vegetate and mature. Brother Dupont suggests maturation is the cumulative limitation of possibilities. This is the civil take on the servant-subject. Adorno & Horkheimer might have said (with no sense of disagreement) that maturation is the accumulation of injuries and both Kropotkin and Mark Twain spoke of the accumulation of contradictions moving toward a complete embrace with hypocrisy. The least active bullshit detector should begin to smell rotten fish in Denmark, but, unfortunately, the sense of smell is fleeting and so, most prone to habituation. Plant botany and horticulture are, therefore, the only source of data which are able to put to question the myth of the spoiled child. The one thing young cabbages need, that is, if they're not expected to go into the soup or shit can, is just about everything they want: smotherings of motherings and one day, if not young'ns of their own, at least the grounds from which they sprout (and not as our examples in abundance show – de-force). It is the one thing outlawed by the proverbial saint, Paul, who first said "spare the rod and spoil the child". Unless there is another entendre for a rod which has only a freudian connection to fly-fishing, but that would be more the tangled line of Wilhelm Reich and not Oscar Wilde. Nevertheless, it has always been easier to hold the nose and cook up the cabbage than to tend it to the tall, proud stalk it aspires to become. For any plant, love comes in the form (and not in the way) of sunlight, good earth and as much refreshment as can be drunk without tottering. For everyone else, there's the college of education or the space behind the shed for the lessons in propriety, that sacred fealty given toward all but your own property.