Genius. It’s a word we use all too sparingly. Mozart was a genius, Little Richard too. Picasso was a genius even though he was a pretty awkward human being. Catch 22 is a work of genius although people less commonly bestow that honour on its author, Joseph Heller. It’s a mercurial kind of business. Generally speaking, ‘genius’ is a label we reserve for certain fields of endeavour such as literature, music, art and the like. But there’s no good reason for being so stingy. Instead, I think there’s a case for celebrating brilliance where you find it.
Genius. It’s a word we use all too sparingly. Mozart was a genius, Little Richard too. Picasso was a genius even though he was a pretty awkward human being. Catch 22 is a work of genius although people less commonly bestow that honour on its author, Joseph Heller. It’s a mercurial kind of business. Generally speaking, ‘genius’ is a label we reserve for certain fields of endeavour such as literature, music, art and the like. But there’s no good reason for being so stingy. Instead, I think there’s a case for celebrating brilliance where you find it.
Is it possible to be a bona fide genius when it comes to fish and chips? I firmly believe it is. Mozart and Picasso would probably tell you otherwise, but neither of them knew the true transcendental pleasure that comes from flake, minimum chips and a splash of vinegar. It’s a scientific fact that the greatest fish and chips in the Universe can always be found at the fish and chip shop nearest your house, but in my case, it’s actually true. The front window says it all: Bill is back. His name is on the window because Bill’s work with hot oil and deep fried food can fairly be described as nothing short of ground breaking.
Ideally, the work of Bill would receive broader recognition. We have all kinds of awards for excellence; for journalists, writers and footballers alike. But we need to think a little bigger and reward accomplishment in other fields too. ‘Best flake: grilled’ ought to be a trophy. ‘The lifetime achievement award for minimum chips’ is an honour that ought to be bestowed with an oversized cheque. In a perfect world, there would be a televised Brownlow-style vote count on a round by round basis for ‘Best Dim Sims – steamed or fried’.
Each day, I stop at the same coffee shop on my way to work. Once upon a time, people who made coffee were referred to simply as ‘coffeemakers’. But at some point, that all changed and the term ‘barista’ came into vogue. I’m not sure what the qualifications are to be a barista, other than a man-bun, a beard and having recently returned from a year’s backpacking through South America. But it’s not like that at my coffee shop. She has neither a man-bun nor a beard, but she makes a remarkable flat white. If that does not sound like the kind of skill that ought to attract a term like ‘genius’, think for a moment about every lousy cup of coffee you ever tipped over your lips in sufferance and then tell me that the ability to create a truly great skinny latte doesn’t deserve a plaque or, possibly, a ticker tape parade.
That you are a genius in one area doesn’t mean you’re brilliant at everything, though. There’s a bakery down the street and, frankly, most of the products are terrible. I once bought a piece of hedgehog that was so rock-solid that it could have been used to pave a landing strip for large aircraft. There are times, late at night, when I truly wonder whether or not the remnants of that hedgehog are yet to be fully dissolved by my digestive system; such was its indestructible nature. Whilst creating a cake that cannot be destroyed by conventional weapons may well be genius of a sort, that’s not where their true talent lies.
The very same bakery that makes inedible hedgehog and vanilla slices that look as though they’ve just had a rough night out on the tiles also make the greatest lamingtons known to humanity. This is not something I say lightly. Lamingtons were my grandmother’s signature dish. She perfected the art of the lamington after first learning to cook them as part of Australia’s test for new migrants. Back then, if you could whip up either a pavlova or lamington, you were immediately granted citizenship. I’m not sure where our local baker managed to stumble across the recipe for his lamingtons, but they are supernaturally fluffy and delicious. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he has practically re-invented the art form.
As for me, I’m not a genius at fish and chips. Nor am I a genius at making a cup of coffee or lamingtons, notwithstanding that I’ve been known to consume both from time to time. My skills, it seems, lie elsewhere. If I am a genius at anything, it’s probably at getting up early. That may not sound like much of a talent, but it’s certainly come in handy over the past few weeks in managing the dog. But that’s not all. Two weeks ago, I performed possibly the greatest piece of reverse parking of all time. The space was tight and I guided the vehicle to within kissing distance of the gutter in a single attempt. Some might call that luck. But you and I know better.
Given a choice, we’d all love to paint great paintings, write brilliant books and compose music that endures through the ages. Most of us won’t, though. But it doesn’t mean that our contributions, whether large or small, don’t all help to keep this big old world spinning on its axis in their own particular way. So let me be the first to say it: you’re a genius. I’m not sure in which field, but I’m certain that you’re great at something that makes a difference. And so on behalf of me and everyone else, let me simply say to you: thanks.