Tuesday, June 16, 2009

the foreigner in the fridge

Veggies I was reading an article about saving money on groceries, idly thinking 'Well, I do that', and 'Holy crap do Canadians get fleeced on coupons' - because really, Canucks, you do - and 'I'm amazed my slow cooker isn't worn out yet' and clicked away, disgruntled.
Some of the suggestions are pretty basic, after all.
My family is trying to be as local as we can be. We're kind of proud of it, actually...haunting the local farm markets for produce and goods, doing our best to buy locally. We're even experimenting with putting in (well, experimenting again) a garden.
Some things we fudge on, like coffee (I'm fine with that, I am, because mornings are not fun when I don't get my coffee) and no one seems to be distilling gasoline nearby, but we make choices like early apples over the-peaches-from-the-United-States, and ketchup made in the Maritimes.

Our pantry staples are local. Sugar refined in Nova Scotia, flour from Newfoundland. Pickles made in a neighbor's kitchen. Sauces and dried fruit and local cheeses. Meat from the butcher. Maple syrup from Labrador.
It takes time to peruse labels, to try to buy things produced nearby. I thought I was doing a good job.
Which is why I nearly spit coffee all over the counter this morning when I realized the molasses was a wolf in sheep's clothing. Oh, sure, the label was that of a local company. The label was a company in New Brunswick, the molasses the stuff of my husband's memories growing-up. Pancake breakfasts, dumplings and 'lassie on Sunday nights. You know, the usual brand. Of course this was a local product.
Right? Well, no.
The molasses itself was purified and packaged in New Brunswick. But came from Guatemala.
Guatemala. Not exactly the 100-miles-diet-friendly item I'd been assuming it was.
Tomorrow I'll start hunting out a new molasses - or equivalent. But I dassn't tell Bear.
He's already grumpy about the dearth of peach cobbler.

This is an original Canada Moms Blog post. Jessica blogs at daysgoby and tries her hand at poetry in the still white room.  Photo by Sbocaj.