Much is being said these days about “local food.” Must of this earthy discourse is, of course, taking place in New York City, a place where the idea of local food should probably cause at least a small shiver to run down the spines of those who, like me, grew up within proximity of actual agriculture and know what it is supposed to look like. (You know how Eskimos are supposed to have 47 words for snow? Illinoisans should have 47 words for corn.) I don’t want my local NYC food to be too local. I’ve seen the Gowanus Canal. Growing herbs on my fire escape is about as far as I’m willing to go.

Anyhow, I’m glad that local food has fully arrived as a trendy and interesting concept for New Yorkers because I stand to benefit from it personally. You see, my first job was selling sweet corn at a roadside stand in Illinois. (Sweet corn is, you understand, like totally not as evil as field corn, a crop which all New Yorkers in the know hate. All you Illinoisan youths who detasseled your summers away down in Decatur, sadly, are not cool. You’re destroying America.)

Yes, I was employed by an actual Illinois farmer, selling her actual sweet corn that she actually grew just outside my actual town. I weighed your produce and calculated sales tax. I used a cash box and counted your change back to you like they teach in school. No calculators allowed. I was horrible at it. I was almost fired every single day.

Who knew that would ever be sort of cool?

(Photo:EvanSims)