Let me explain. And sorry for what I am about to say, and sorry if you call Ottawa, Illinois, "home".
I just drove across country; from New Jersey to Portland, Oregon. I needed a change. I'm almost thirty, all my friends are married, and like the Allman Brothers say, "Nobody left to run with anymore. Nobody left to do the crazy things we used to do before."
So I hit the road a few weeks ago. But the second day into my 2,500 mile drive, about 120 miles from Chicago, my car craps out in the middle of route 80, and I'm stranded for four days in "lovely" Ottawa, Illinois, with nothing to eat.
I'm stuck in a lousy hotel in the middle of no where, and while I'm waiting for my car repair bill of $2,000 to come to fruition, I obviously need to eat. But I'm not looking to spend a lot of money on take out.
So I go to the front desk and ask the girl if there's a supermarket around here. She gives me a hangdog look and says, "Oh you mean like Wal-Mart." Of course, I should have known she was going to say Wal-Mart, it's the Midwest after all.
Apparently a Wal-Mart superstore was just down the road. We don't have those in New Jersey, at least I have never seen one, so I trudge through sub-zero temperatures to the supermarket - err, Wal-mart.
I walk in to what looked like an underground colony. I have never seen a Wal-Mart this big. It was cavernous. But luckily I didn't have to spelunk the store that much, the grocery section was in plain sight. I figured I would buy some fruit and maybe a few bagels. I'm from the east coast, I love me some good Jewish bagels.
Well, there were no bagels in site. I'm guessing bagels are a metropolitan thing. And sorry, if you buy Thomas's Bagels in a bag, you're lying to yourself; those aren't real bagels, just stick with Wonder Bread.
So I skip the bagels and load up on fruit: apples, pears, bananas, and clementines. Here's where it gets sad.
I go to the register and Starla the cashier, who coincidently had a series of stars tattooed on her neck - no knock on tattoos, I have a bunch - rings up the apples and stuff, but pauses when she grabs the clementines. The expression on her face is what I imagine early man looked like when he discovered fire for the first time. "Ugh, what dis' be?"
Starla, bless her heart, picks up her cash register encyclopedia -- a fold out with pictures of various fruits and vegetables listing their names and product codes -- and after a minute of quandary, she asks, "What are these?"
"Clementines," I answer. Starla's initial response was vacant, like when your dog stares at you when you go to the bathroom with the door open.
But after another 30 seconds Starla says, "Are you sure these aren't apricots."
I'm a jerk, so I reply, "Not a chance." No offense, but I wasn't surprised. Starla didn't exactly look like she ate that much fruit.
Puzzled by my response, Starla, in an epiphany, says, "I'll just key them in as little oranges." Poor girl, it's the best she could do.
Now, I think I know why Starla had no idea what clementines were, and its not her fault. When I got back to my room, I started eating the fruit, and all of it, including the vaunted clementines, were terrible. Desperately unripe, totally bland, and "dried out" tasting.
So this made me think, no wonder the Midwest is very obese, their access to good quality produce may be lacking. They're certainly not as close to ideal growing temperatures as coastal areas.
Maybe, just like poorer urban areas back east, like New York City, we should pay close attention to the import of better quality fruits, vegetables, and fresh foods to the Midwest; especially since I saw a lot of morbidly obese customers wheeling around the Wal-Mart, instead of walking.
But fortunately for me, Portland has a bevy of farmers markets, Asian grocery stores, and most importantly, micro breweries.
Image credit: me
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