Farmers’ Market: Urban Legends
Do you remember your days as a kid at summer camp? Or more accurately, your nights? Perched on a log, hugging your knees and clenching your bare toes in the dirt, you leaned in and listened intently, barely breathing, while your counselor scared the wits out of you with some slow-paced, but escalating, ghost story.
Outside the ring of light from the campfire, the woods were ink black. Your rational mind told you that you were safe and sound in camp, surrounded by other kids. There were people paid to keep an eye on all the things that go bump in the night to make sure they really were “just an owl.” However, there was also a part of your brain simultaneously pointing out that there really might be a three-fingered Willy or a man with a golden arm beyond the circle of firelight. You giggled nervously, yet carefully stored away every detail of the story to take home and share with your little sister, preferably in the venue of a dark bedroom.
The push-me/pull-you of rational thought versus imagination continues long after you have ceased the summer camp tradition. So-called urban legends are rampant, maybe even more so now that the e-mail forwarding trend has become ubiquitous. You perpetually encounter people who speak with great authority about something, only to discover that their source is unattributed Google.
In the same week, I have been assured that washing cast-iron fry pans will ruin them, in spite of the fact that I have been washing mine for over 40 years to no obvious detriment. A couple of different “authorities” have threatened consumers of eggs with a). rapid spoilage or b). bacteria from the outside of the shell being forced inside, resulting from the act of washing them. This despite the obvious from observing conditions in a battery cage operation, that commercially produced eggs just had to have been washed. Finally, another individual suggested that garlic, a popular addition to many dog biscuit recipes consumed with gusto around here, was the doggie equivalent of Shakespearean hemlock.
The goal of accuracy is especially motivating when the topic includes things we ingest. In each of the cases above, backtracking to recognized authorities provided referenced sources of assurance that these ideas were the culinary equivalent of alligators in the New York sewers.
To be fair, we have access to a lot of information. Sometimes it is difficult to sort out fact from fiction. Like the possibility of a man with a hook for a hand out there somewhere, there is that tiny kernel of truth that makes the story plausible. Iron will rust if not thoroughly dried; newly laid eggs do have an anti-bacterial, but water-soluble, cuticle on the surface of the shell; too much of anything, however tasty, can be a gastronomical challenge.
Isn’t it reassuring to be able to shop where you live, so to speak? When you can visit with the producers of your food? If you have the added confidence that the producers eat those same products regularly? Stop by the Presque Isle Farmers Market on any Saturday morning in the Aroostook Centre Mall parking lot and visit with folks ready, willing, and able to answer your questions. No “ghost stories” here!
Editor’s note: This weekly column is written by members of the Presque Isle Farmers’ Market. For more information or to join, contact their secretary/treasurer Steve Miller of Westmanland at 896-5860 or via e-mail at beetree@xpressamerica.net. The group’s website is https://sites.google.com/site/presqueislefarmersmarket/
