Local Scene

Two things happened over the last two weeks that I thought I would mention. These two items were separate and happened on different days in different weeks. But they both happened while I was on the mainland to purchase food and supplies for events I was cooking for.

Firstly a few weeks ago, now, I was in my favorite coffee shop for my morning fix of caffine and the internet. As I sat there and surfed and slurrped I overheard a conversation about Walmart and how evil it was. I couldn’t help stopping my activities and joining in–it’s that sort of place. Talk turned to foreign imports wiping out local businesses–one in particular. I haven’t verified it as fact yet, but the couple holding the Walmart position (against an elderly, staunch Republican) claimed that our areas oldest apple producing family had given up raising their apples for sale because they couldn’t compete with the foreign market. Infact, they stopped producing their own only to accept a deal to sell Chinese apples instead of their own. I was flabbergasted. We always buy Merritt Apples for fresh eating during the season. We buy cases of them, store them and enjoy them long after our own crop and other island apples have been turned to cider or pies, or sauce. They are an institution. If it is true, then it is a shame, I thought as I left. If this 2003 article, and this 2005 article are any indication of what local growers thought, then the much tougher times we’ve had this past year would have been the death knell.

Fast forward to this past Thursday. I actually had time in my day while on the mainland. I decided to beetle out to a small, strange little town called Edison. It is very small–don’t blink–and is built on a very snakey esse in the roadway. Known for its bakery and tough-ass biker bar, a new Artisinal food shop has been there for a while and I was determined to go check it out. The drive out to Edison, from where I was, is nice–20 minutes of winging through the countryside passing farms, orchards and. . . whoa–a huge new red barn and bakery out in the middle of nowhere. It barely registered as I whizzed past, but in the rear-view mirror I looked again and thought "my God how incongruous". It just didn’t look like it belonged and I began to wonder how it could survive on this little traveled road. But there it was. Well, I made my stop in Edison. The food shop was cool. I wasn’t in a buying mood or I might have spent a fortune, and had we not just baked bread at home I might have been tempted to pick up a selection of cheeses–instead of just one–and some cured meats and hike up the road to the local bakery and buy some hearty loaves of Organic Sourdough. Instead I got one small, locally produced lump of chevre and some artisinal chocolate and left.

As I pulled away I decided I would check out the Bakery/Barn on my way past. I had already eaten lunch and with it had an ice cream bar, so hunger would not be a motivating factor. I thought I might buy a coffee, if they had one, and perhaps some baked, breakfasty sort of thing for the following day. So in the Empty driveway I pulled. There was one other car there, and some people just exiting the huge building. As I pulled the key from the ignition and looked up, preparing to open the door, I realized I was parked infront of a sign which read, "No Pets Allowed–This is Not a Poop Station". I didn’t have my dog with me, and normally I don’t notice these sort of things anyway. But I thought this sign, which was really, really large was just a tad offensive in its phrasing. I seriously thought at that minute, based on the sign and the huge amount of cluttery Americana-style junk in front of the place, about putting the key back in the ignition and tearing out of there.

Nevertheless, I got out of the car. It was then that I noticed a twin sign to the first one. They were placed against the posts on either side of the entry way. Both written with 8 inch tall letters–huge. Okay, Okay, I get it–people let their dogs crap in the vast and empty parking lot and you don’t like it. I walked toward the door. And there, 10 feet into the porch up aginst the fixed door of the double door entry way was ANOTHER dog poop sign. THREE!?? It did not set me up for wanting to spend any money there. I swung into the place and looked around. It was wall-to-wall stuff. There were narrow alley ways of furniture and kitsch and stuff everywhere. Floor to ceiling and it was all for sale. Americana and Country Bumbkin ware for the masses. Definitely not to my tastes, but I wandered around. Then I began noticing the name of the shop plastered all over everything–soup mixes, jams, jellies, chutneys, vinegars–everything you could can or process or buy and stick a label on. It was overload. I would have supported one or two or even 5 things well made and at their best, but hundreds of items and candles and and and the list went on and on. I headed around towards the bakery noting that there were little booths to eat at which seemed a nightmare. The place was empty but if I owned it and there were kids or teens or anymore than 4 people in the vast and crowded shop I’d be going crazy trying to keep on top of them. There was no clear line of sight–no possible way to help the befuddled customer or stop a kid from pocketing brick-a-brack. And what a job to keep it all clean and dust free and sanitary in the food areas. UGH.

I swung past the bakery and was hit with the scent of foods and cleanser. There were employees bustling about and donut smells in the air and I think a few pies and filled thingies. The owners were both there tidying. One of them was shouting across the shop to someone in the bakery. A man, whom I thought I recognised, was blocking the doorway doing something or other. My stomach heaved. The day-glow flourescent lighting, the sickly sweet smell of the food, the visual overload, the damning dog poop message all got to me. I bolted. Excusing myself to the man at the door I rushed outside and into the fresh air. Halfway across the porch I almost tripped over a DOG which skittered out of the way. Where did IT come from? Was it about the poop or the local pooch, those offensively large signs? As I drove away thoughts flashed in my head about poor customer relations, should I have mentioned how those signs offendng me, who would shop at that back-road hell hole? Out in the middle of nowhere on a road less travelled, who were their customers? Not a bakery I would want to own. It’s not even a road I usually drive. Any of the other destinations in that neck of the woods are reached by other roads. I tried to shake the experience off. That is until this morning when it all came together.