Humour

Talking tomatoes

T A Balasubramanian writes the story of a smart kitchen pantry.

“In particular,” says Gyani Billmemore, the “Guru of Gizmotopia,” stroking his beard dreamily, “disposable computing dictates a new approach to interaction between software and human users. The issue facing software geeks is this—how do we effectively use networked food, clothing, paper, books, people, doors, cars and roads? Maybe even networked people with chips inside their bodies? What communication strategies do we need? How do we manage quadrillions of devices? And how do they interact with us?”

As you continue with the trade show lesson, accompanied by Danny DeVito, the first biped walking humanoid to be appointed as CTO at Baffle Corporation, you, Papyrus Bytewala, CIO of Baffle, are presently at the receiving end of a lecture on disposable computers at the Techno Over-exposition of Geeks and Gizmos for Lazy Enterprises (TOGGLE).

The speaker in the booth, rotund and vociferous, dressed in the flowing garb of an Indian guru, is half-owner of the firm Gyani Billmemore & Sellmemore, briefly known in business circles as GBS.

“So where does the interaction happen, if I may ask?” says DeVito, oozing politeness. You note that he is particular about his behaviour when he is lapping up a new lesson. Maybe he would be able to turn into a civilised CTO after all. All that you might have to do is to continue feeding his database with endless drivel from GBS that would have driven an ordinary organic human into a slumbering log, bored into stiffness.

“I am glad you are listening attentively, Danny,” says Billmemore, his face lighting up like a bulb. “So I am going to tell you all about the talking tomatoes.”

“The what?”

“Yes, you heard it right,” says Billmemore. “Here is the story. Somewhere in Germany, there is a factory that produces the little cans that canned food goes into. This factory makes cans that appear perfectly normal to the casual eye. However, each can contains a tiny computer, a small amount of memory, and a short-range radio transceiver.”

“A smart can,” says DeVito.

“Right. The factory that makes them charges a little more for each one. As part of their production, the cans get embedded with a small amount of data such as the date of manufacture, the batch and can number, the alloy details, and so on. Once produced these cans travel all over the world. One batch of these cans is sent to Italy where they go to a tomato-canning factory and are filled with tomatoes. At this factory, as part of the canning process, the can gathers a little more data: it is full of diced Roman tomatoes, it was filled on a certain date as part of a particular batch, and it has a particular use-by date.”

“Well, that explains the tomato,” you say quietly.

“One of these cans of tomatoes gets exported to the USA. As it moves off the wharf it is processed and its data content is translated from Italian to English. After a brief stint in a warehouse it ends up on a supermarket shelf, and there it inherits a little more information such as the retail price and date of being placed on the shelf. Here’s where you come in with some interaction at last.”

“Me?” says DeVito. “How?”

“Well, at some point your smart kitchen pantry knows to order the can and one is sent to your house in the next delivery. Before the can leaves the store, the supermarket extracts the information it needs for stocktaking. Some weeks later you are at your desk at work thinking about dinner, and decide that tonight you are going to cook a romantic meal for two. You look up your recipes, select one, and check your pantry for the necessary ingredients. Your tomatoes have cheerfully registered themselves to the pantry upon arrival, so it is able to report that all you need is some fresh basil that you can pick up on the way home.”

“My pantry does all this?”

“Well, think of it as a computer-aided pantry. At the supermarket, you find the basil and drop it into the trolley, which updates the cumulative price of your selections. Noticing the screen’s flicker, you glance down and see an advertisement for a special on soup.”

“There’s no getting away from the media menace, eh?” you murmur.

“You cancel it and disable further advertising. Finally done, you push the trolley through the payment counter, where your account is debited for the total, and your home address attached to your items. You push the trolley onto the track for delivery before heading to the in-house cafe for a coffee on the way home as the store delivers the shopping for you.”

“Conveniently located, no doubt, so that you appreciate the coffee.”

“At home you begin to cook, placing the opened can of tomatoes from the pantry onto the table. Now, the can reports that it has been opened—after detecting the pressure differential. You have been meaning to get the auto-light on your gas stove fixed for weeks now and seemingly every time you want to light it you can’t find the matches.”

“That’s me,” you nod. “Happens every day.”

“You ask the kitchen to locate the nearest box for you: there’s one in the cutlery drawer. You have had enough though, so you direct the kitchen to add the stove repair into your budget. Your stove knows not to hassle you again.”

“There’s a hidden computer interface there too,” says DeVito, admiringly.

“Having enjoyed your meal, you turn on the television, but during the first commercial break a scrolling message from the kitchen appears at the bottom of the screen telling you that there is an open can of tomatoes that has been getting warm for over two hours.”

“Ah. This is truly a smart move,” you think.

“You curse briefly, but you are at least glad the house did not interrupt while you were busy. It knows you are not watching an important show and it did have the decency to wait for an ad interruption. You go to the kitchen and put the can into the fridge, pausing briefly to put the matches back on the fridge where you expect them.”

“Three days later, you wake up and shuffle to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As you grab the milk, you see the fridge’s display panel has a number of messages for you. You can deal with the e-mails later but notice that the fridge is complaining that there is a can of tomatoes that is getting well beyond its prime. At first you cannot find them, but the fridge locates them behind the last of the pickle jars. You take the tomatoes and make a sandwich. Enjoying your snack with your coffee, you begin a casual cleanup and throw the empty can into the recycling unit. The unit strips any personal information from the can, and noticing the alloy content, it ensures that it gets picked up. A day later, the can is shipped to Germany for recycling.”

“Impressive, Mr Billmemore,” says DeVito solemnly. “But you could edit your talk to about half the present length, you know.”

“I had no idea,” says Billmemore, a little shaken, “that I was boring you two.”

“Just a little,” you say, soothingly.

DeVito looks at you with his lips curled in what appears to be a look of amusement. Going from surly and imperishable to easily bored was no mean accomplishment for a humanoid.