In the verdant heart of Korea, where once the fields bore the rich legacy of farming wisdom encapsulated in text, a bittersweet narrative unfolds. "Sallim kyŏngje," a tome brimming with agricultural insight penned by the venerable Hong Man-seon, serves as more than a mere compendium of farming techniques. It is a requiem for a bygone era—a haunting reminder of how knowledge once flourished like the chili peppers it so ardently describes, only to wither in the harsh realities of modernity. Imagine the wistful gaze of old farmers as they stand amidst their wilted crops, the honor of their trade reduced to whispers against the cacophony of industrialization. Once, the teachings of "Sallim kyŏngje" provided not only methods of cultivation but a sense of purpose, a connection to the land that birthed their ancestors. Today, that connection has frayed, replaced by the sterile clinking of machinery and the distant hum of progress. The vibrant red of the chili peppers, which once illuminated meal tables with their fiery essence, has faded into the backdrop of supermarket shelves where imported produce reigns supreme. The irony of this agricultural heartache cannot be overstated. This profuse pepper, now recognized as a staple in kitchens around the world, was once the pride of Korean fields, as celebrated in Hong Man-seon’s treatise. It drew on methods taught through generations, each crop a dialogue between farmer and soil, an exchange rich not only in the fruits of labor but in culture and memory. Yet, in our quest for efficiency and abundance, what have we cast aside? The meticulous care, the seasonal rhythms, the patience of a farmer’s touch—these have been sacrificed on the altar of convenience. We have become like the very vines of the chili plant that Hong so eloquently detailed, our roots shallow and tangled, yearning for the depth of knowledge that once sustained us. We harvest the fruits of the earth but have forgotten how to tend to the roots. The elders, the custodians of wisdom, are pulling back, their stories forgotten against the noise of social media influencers striking poses in fields of green. Farming wisdom that could guide new generations is lost to a culture that champions flash over substance, spectacle over sincerity. It is heartbreaking to behold the decline of this wisdom. The rise of hydroponics and genetically modified organisms yields results, yes, but at what cost? The narrative of farming has shifted from nurturing the land to exploiting it for profit, a bleak commentary on our society’s values. Those who diligently studied "Sallim kyŏngje" would likely weep at the erosion of practices that emphasized ecological balance, collaboration with nature, and respect for the labor of previous generations. Our progress has become an act of forgetting, a collective amnesia that prioritizes the present over the lessons of the past. As we gallivant toward the future, we have lost sight of what it means to cultivate not just crops, but also a community—a connection that transcends the physical to embrace the spiritual. The heartache of farming wisdom lost is less about the peppers themselves and more about the stories left untold, the faces erased from memory, the hearts that once beat in time with the seasons. Each chili pepper now plucked from the vine is a reminder of the knowledge that could have been, should have been, but is irrevocably lost. In this tale, peppery joy turns to muted despair—a journey from harvest to heartache. As "Sallim kyŏngje" gathers dust, we reside in a paradox where abundance reigns but understanding dwindles. Let us hope that amidst the hustle of modern life, some may yet pause to listen to the land, to seek out the farmers whose backs have bent under the weight of knowledge and loss. For in their stories lies the promise of resilience, the path back from pity to purpose—a chance to reconcile our relationship with the earth and to rediscover the wisdom that once flowed as freely as the chili pepper's spicy essence.