Randolph couldn’t really say when the idea came to him originally. He’d certainly been asked enough, by wide-eyed children; by dubious-looking teachers; by his mother-with a quaver in her voice; by his father, who re-framed the very question by asking when he’d lost his effing mind; and the over the years by countless friends, passers-by, and even a few morning news show hosts. Why on earth did he travel around eating dirt? What was he trying to prove? Wasn’t it gross?

Randolph had thought about at some length himself, and ultimately he concluded that there wasn’t any definitive answer. He likened himself to the primitive artist who feels the urge to create, merely for the simple joy of process. At some point he began to crystallize the notion that perhaps he might ultimately create the only known catalog of flavors of the entire planet. At least that much of the solitary blue bastion of known life that he could visit, kneel thoughtfully, reach down, and put in his mouth.