Foi Gras and Marigolds
Aug. 24th, 2011 08:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraSo Reuben showed up for our ESL lesson yesterday – which was great since I haven’t seen him in something like three weeks. Been a busy time at the foi gras factory. He wanted to take me out to eat so I suggested Wegman’s.
What does it say about me, I wonder, that when the prospect of a free meal is dangled in front of me I pick cafeteria-style dining at the local park and shop?
Reuben was in deep torment and his English was definitely not as good as the last time I saw him, the effects of spending 18 hours a day inseminating ducks, seven days a week.
He’s explained the duck insemination process in lurid detail. I will not repeat it here.
The place he does his work is apparently filthy and the filth impacts the ducks. The floor, for example, often has standing water so the humidity in the air makes it touch for the egg shells to hatch.
“Tough situation,” I said, speaking slowly, loudly and clearly. “You have two problems. One is that your business is in the heart of the Animal Rights kingdom and if the locals find out that you are mistreating animals, they will shut the business down. Second, is that you are producing food under unclean conditions which means it’s a potential source of disease. If public health inspectors get wind of that, they will shut you down.”
“I tell my cousin that,” Reuben said miserably. “He laughs. He say business is good for five more years. After that, he don’t care.”
His cousin is either the manager or the owner of the business – after nine months of learning far more about foi gras production than I ever wanted to know, I still haven’t figured out which.
“Not a good way to run a business,” I said. “Businesses should be sustainable.”
“Sustainable?”
Not quite a buzz phrase. But I honestly didn’t know how to explain it.
“My cousin, he don’t care about the right way to do things,” Reuben said. “He care about fancy car, good clothes.”
“But you care.”
“I care.” Reuben shot me a wry smile.
“You’re so smart, Reuben,” I said. “You know if your English was better, you could get a job as a manager. And then you could change the way things are done. But now, you know. Do you understand everything I say to you?"
“Yes,” he said.
“But I only understand 70 percent of what you say to me. And that’s because I’ve learned to understand your accent. I think most people would understand much less. Have you still been listening to those English tapes?”
“No time,” he said wearily. “All the time, my cousin say, ‘More ducks, more ducks!’”
“How long do you work every day?”
He shrugged. “Twelve hour. Fourteen hour.”
“You know the way to get people to change the way they do things? You go to them and say, This will save you money. Do that and they’ll listen to you.”
Reuben regarded me with a half smile. “You are very honest. And very smart. I appreciate that about you.”
“I am very smart,” I agreed merrily. “Fat lot of good it’s ever done me.”
Reuben reached over and patted me very tenderly on the arm.
###
Back in Freeville, I took Mr. Milo for his final walk of the day. There’s still some light at 8pm but the late summer smell is everywhere. All summer long the stalks of some plant have been inching upward in the huge field in front of my house, and now I see that they’re goldenrod, ten thousand goldenrod, amassed for summer’s last hurrah. Everywhere plants are berrying – the wild grapes are purple, that honeysuckle-like flower that bloomed in May is thick with red fruit. Besides the goldenrod, summer’s last flowers are chickory, Dutchmen’s breeches and the delicate cranebill. I haven’t seen the Beave for weeks and weeks; a heron seems to have taken over the old dams, and it startles me to see him, I’m so used to thinking of herons as ocean birds –
I can appreciate the progression of the seasons on an intellectual level, but I am so not, not, not looking forward to another winter.
What does it say about me, I wonder, that when the prospect of a free meal is dangled in front of me I pick cafeteria-style dining at the local park and shop?
Reuben was in deep torment and his English was definitely not as good as the last time I saw him, the effects of spending 18 hours a day inseminating ducks, seven days a week.
He’s explained the duck insemination process in lurid detail. I will not repeat it here.
The place he does his work is apparently filthy and the filth impacts the ducks. The floor, for example, often has standing water so the humidity in the air makes it touch for the egg shells to hatch.
“Tough situation,” I said, speaking slowly, loudly and clearly. “You have two problems. One is that your business is in the heart of the Animal Rights kingdom and if the locals find out that you are mistreating animals, they will shut the business down. Second, is that you are producing food under unclean conditions which means it’s a potential source of disease. If public health inspectors get wind of that, they will shut you down.”
“I tell my cousin that,” Reuben said miserably. “He laughs. He say business is good for five more years. After that, he don’t care.”
His cousin is either the manager or the owner of the business – after nine months of learning far more about foi gras production than I ever wanted to know, I still haven’t figured out which.
“Not a good way to run a business,” I said. “Businesses should be sustainable.”
“Sustainable?”
Not quite a buzz phrase. But I honestly didn’t know how to explain it.
“My cousin, he don’t care about the right way to do things,” Reuben said. “He care about fancy car, good clothes.”
“But you care.”
“I care.” Reuben shot me a wry smile.
“You’re so smart, Reuben,” I said. “You know if your English was better, you could get a job as a manager. And then you could change the way things are done. But now, you know. Do you understand everything I say to you?"
“Yes,” he said.
“But I only understand 70 percent of what you say to me. And that’s because I’ve learned to understand your accent. I think most people would understand much less. Have you still been listening to those English tapes?”
“No time,” he said wearily. “All the time, my cousin say, ‘More ducks, more ducks!’”
“How long do you work every day?”
He shrugged. “Twelve hour. Fourteen hour.”
“You know the way to get people to change the way they do things? You go to them and say, This will save you money. Do that and they’ll listen to you.”
Reuben regarded me with a half smile. “You are very honest. And very smart. I appreciate that about you.”
“I am very smart,” I agreed merrily. “Fat lot of good it’s ever done me.”
Reuben reached over and patted me very tenderly on the arm.
Back in Freeville, I took Mr. Milo for his final walk of the day. There’s still some light at 8pm but the late summer smell is everywhere. All summer long the stalks of some plant have been inching upward in the huge field in front of my house, and now I see that they’re goldenrod, ten thousand goldenrod, amassed for summer’s last hurrah. Everywhere plants are berrying – the wild grapes are purple, that honeysuckle-like flower that bloomed in May is thick with red fruit. Besides the goldenrod, summer’s last flowers are chickory, Dutchmen’s breeches and the delicate cranebill. I haven’t seen the Beave for weeks and weeks; a heron seems to have taken over the old dams, and it startles me to see him, I’m so used to thinking of herons as ocean birds –
I can appreciate the progression of the seasons on an intellectual level, but I am so not, not, not looking forward to another winter.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 05:18 pm (UTC)And, for better or worse, the picture of duck insemination reminded me of a joke:
"I used to breed dogs. Then I found out they can do that themselves."
Wish I knew who to credit for that bit of gold...
no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 05:22 pm (UTC)And you are so-o right about that vegetarian diet.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 05:24 pm (UTC)If it isn't, yr syntax is curiously the same!)