Chapter 22
Food for thought

Email To: Midlands Superstores
Director of Customer Service
From: Leslie Ann Bosher
Date: 26 June
Subject: Consumer comment

Dear Sir,

As a patron of one of your superstores, I would like to bring to your attention the following observations. Are you aware there are children growing up who believe lettuce grows in plastic bags, green peppers actually spring from the soil hermetically sealed in shrink-wrap and meat comes in styrofoam trays? Do you know there are children who think bacon should smell like fish?

Scanning the produce department, I have noted that the vegetables are imported from a minimum of nine foreign countries. With the exception of staff, anything from England is conspicuously absent. Is it your policy to ignore local growers in preference to imported produce? Do you actually believe broccoli and tomatoes improve in quality when transported thousands of miles across continents? If so, then we will become loyal supporters of all local farmers’ markets in the hope that you will realize not all customers want to sacrifice excellence for the sake of low prices.

Concerned consumer,
Leslie Ann Bosher

One of the misconceptions people have about life in the countryside, especially noted by my American cousins whose depth of knowledge is often limited to London, is that amenities such as bookshops, art galleries and food stores must be substandard, somehow second-rate because they are rural. The fact is our supermarkets are almost identical to those found in large cities, both in the United Kingdom and in the United States. Double-wide aisles are stacked with goods so familiar it’s scary: Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, V8, Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice and Heinz Ketchup. At our local supermarket any one of thirty checkout staff will take your cash, cheque or Visa, but unlike in the States they will not offer assistance in bagging your groceries or provide paper as an alternative to plastic.

In the main, stores are modern, expansive and meet the needs of their customers. The real differences show up in product packaging and variety. In America coffee cream is sold in a dozen different flavours; in England it does not exist, while milk is available only in a limited number of choices. In America you can select Grade A Pasteurized Whole, 2 per cent Fat, 1 per cent Fat, Buttermilk, Cultured Low Fat, Skim Deluxe (fat free with the taste of 2 per cent milk), Acidophilus Plus with vitamins A and D and vanilla flavoured. This is only an abridged list.

It is always amusing to see a corner of our store draped in swags of red, white and blue crepe paper drawing attention to the best of Yankee imports. Caramel popcorn, chocolate chip cookies, mountainous white hamburger buns, waist-expanding sugar-glazed doughnuts, Sara Lee desserts and Weight Watchers diet meals are all proudly displayed next to each other. It is just the kind of assortment to bring out a feeling of home pride.

The English have their product icons as well. The best known are Marmite (you either love it or hate it) and Ribena, a sweet blackcurrant concentrate that miraculously replaces formula without the slightest hint of rejection from a toddler. Lucozade energizes and a bowl of Weetabix cereal claims to fuel the body for the day. These enduring food favourites reflect a diet of gastronomic functionality at its best.

Deli counters and salad bars are the biggest disappointment, offering their lacklustre selections. Individual plastic tubs of shredded carrots, tuna with sweet corn, and herring all swim in the same mayonnaise sauce. It wouldn’t take much imagination to provide bins of mixed olives, a selection of nuts, seeds and dried fruit, barrels of trappable olive oils, loose exotic coffee and tea, freshly made sandwiches and hostess plates created while you wait. A weekend trip to France demonstrates just how exciting food can be when prepared and presented well. But then the English would never want to ape the French in any way, would they? That’s why hundreds of thousands of them travel abroad regularly to bring back delicacies unavailable over here. What irony.

Most of the fresh food in our store has been outsourced and transported from great distances in order to get into our market. An ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ record can easily be beaten by any housewife or househusband who is in possession of a grocery cart and is willing to travel the aisles in search of food. Chillies and snow peas are imported from Zambia, asparagus comes in from Thailand and Peru, potatoes and celery from Israel, grapes from South Africa and bananas from the Ivory Coast. America contributes grapefruit, corn on the cob and sweet potatoes. Did I leave out a country? Yes, I think I did. England.

We’re fortunate to have three towns in close proximity that can offer an alternative to supermarket shopping. On Fridays I have the choice of Stamford, Oakham or Uppingham’s wonderful farmers’ markets. This is where you’ll find me; that is, of course, if it is not too rainy, too windy, too dark, too cold or I am too sleepy to bother. For it is here that the early bird does indeed get the best worms. These markets, set up under the watchful eye of the National Association of Farmers’ Markets, are appreciated for providing quality products in a friendly environment. The three basic tenets of the Association state that the food must be farm produced, that those manning the stalls must be either family members of the producer or employees who have an involvement with the business and that the products must be available on a regular basis. It is well known that a shopper in search of a juicy leg of lamb for dinner is also likely to buy a cappuccino at the café, or ponder over a dress in a nearby boutique. These markets not only encourage healthy eating, they are profit centres for the towns. According to local knowledge, for every £100 spent in farmers’ markets £80 remains in the community. On the other hand, the same amount of money spent in a supermarket nets the community only £20.

Fresh produce stalls entice shoppers with displays of French banana shallots, crinkly savoy cabbages, glossy apples, earthy balls of celeriac and heaps of broad beans. Ropes of garlic, strings of chilli peppers and sacks of dusty potatoes fill the shelves. Cornish peppered mackerel, smoked haddock, Scottish herring and pearl-white skate wings are all laid on a bed of crushed ice at the fishmonger. Jewel bright, homemade ginger and redcurrant jelly and cinnamon basil jams are often for sale at the Women’s Institute stall, supplied and manned, or should I say ‘womanned’, completely by volunteers. Bottled dressings of lavender, tangy grapefruit, tarragon and mulberry add a splash of colour. Honey, fresh horseradish, speckled quails’ eggs and spaghetti marrow tempt the pallet while ripe cheese aromas fill the morning air with their unmistakable pungent scents.

Bill is a real honey of a husband for many reasons, not the least of which is that he enjoys grocery shopping and will actively pursue it as he travels the back roads from his office to home each evening. He delights in sniffing around farm shops and like a golden retriever can’t wait to get home to empty the contents of his paper bags. Doing his best canine impression of a dog with a chewy toy, he excitedly places the day’s finds on the kitchen counter. He’s made so many friends with local farmers that some evenings I’m surprised he arrives home at all.

The timing of our move to the countryside was spot-on with the revival of artisan producers. They are more than suppliers; they are breeders of rare livestock, growers of organic vegetables, confectioners and bakers, but above all they are part of a community of purpose and we feel healthier for knowing and supporting them.