Nina In New York: I Like My Food Like I Like My Dogs
A young professional's take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
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By Nina Pajak
While I was on vacation in California, I also spent a fair amount of time immersing myself in the unofficial yet extremely present California burger wars (We have the best burger! No we have the best burger! Ours is cheap! Ours is classic! Ours is so amazing you are forbidden to alter it in any way!). Visiting the state without eating an In-n-Out burger is like going to Paris and abstaining from cheese. That is to say, criminal. And stupit with a capital "T." Of course, then I had to try a couple more, just to be fair. So after a few days of dutifully engaging in hamburger tourism, my body felt strongly that I needed to eat some fruit (my brain continued to want beef). Naturally, much like their burgers, Californians take great pride in their produce. It's the best! Your East coast fruit is puny and overpriced and only meagerly organic! Out here, it's all local and sustainable and organic and delicious and huge and juicy and perfect and cheap and did I mention it's local? Not to mention that it's all grown right here. Nope, doesn't get any fresher'n that.
See Also: New York City Guide To Farmers' Markets
So my gracious and generous hosts supplied me with a fridge filled with delicious, delicious California fruit. And it was all as incredible as promised. I couldn't argue with them—the superiority was undeniable. As I was gobbling up a bowl of blueberries one morning, I thought to myself, there must be something to all of this West coast local farming goodness. I would be so happy to have this type of fresh produce available to me on a regular basis. What a great place. If only! If only, I thought to myself, and as I went to replace the bowl in the fridge I dreamily gazed upon it and noticed a stem from a blueberry waving around in the wind.
That's odd.
There was no wind. I was indoors with no need for air conditioning. And, um, it wasn't a stem. Wait, was it? Yes, of course it's a stem. Don't be crazy. Phew. No, oh dear God. I leaned down as close as I dared get and stared hard at what was, unquestionably, a little wiggly worm wiggling his little wormy way out of a blueberry which I easily could have soon eaten. Did I already eat his brother? His brothers? I began to dry heave and gag and curse the fact that I ever for a moment fell for the idea that all this local organic crap is even remotely enviable. "Well, that's real fresh fruit for ya!" my host said brightly when I called to tell him his precious berries were infested. What are we, living offa the fatta the lan' out here? Am I stopping by my friendly neighborhood blueberry patch to fill my basket (and my belly!) and bicycle back to Gran's house to feed my woodland friends? No, I'm in a high-rise apartment in Santa Monica and I am eating wares purchased at a shmancy Santa Monica supermarket. I prefer my food sans invertebrates, and if that means I spend the rest of my life eating the alternative to "real fresh fruit," well, so be it.
Of course, what I'm not disclosing is my long and storied past in which I've found countless bugs in my meals and earned the nickname "the food inspector." Those are tales for another time. But, to be totally fair, this condemnation of worm-filled "fresh fruit" may not be entirely...fair. Let's suffice it to say that if there was one single worm in one single blueberry in the entire state of California, it comes as no surprise that he would find himself in my bowl. Regardless, the fact remains that I saw what I saw! And I ate what I ate (maybe). So my mind is made up. Give me a good, sprayed-over piece of produce any day of the week. As long as it's local.
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Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
The Nina Archives:
I'm Back, And I'm Not Going Anywhere. Until I Go On Another Trip.
Time For New York To Step Up And Commit Already
Let's Drop This 'Rehab' Thing, Shall We?
You Can Find Me At The Dog Run
