ILLUSTRATION: ISTOCK
My father’s family were fruit and veg merchants. My childhood was spent gorging on produce from all over the world (albeit the slightly manky stuff that couldn’t be sold). One of my earliest memories is of creeping out of the house with my dad on a still-dark morning to accompany him to the Birmingham Wholesale Market. I watched, entranced, as a trader opened a box of apples, fresh from South Africa: cool, crisp and shiny. To my delight, he offered me one. I can still remember the taste, as sweet, crunchy and juicy as if it had just fallen from the tree.
It seemed like a miracle to the four-yearold me that an apple had come all the way from Africa. Today, gigantic container ships supply us with everything from bras to bananas and we think nothing of it. Thanks to international trade (something that’s been around for a while – ever heard of the Spice Route?), we can buy anything we want, whenever we want it. We should celebrate that. It’s a triumph of human endeavour, and our forlorn, beetroot-eating ancestors would have killed to have the kind of diversity in their diets that we can enjoy.
So when did the absurd foodie dictum emerge that, if it grows in this country, you’re not allowed to eat it from anywhere else, even out of season? Shoes and clothes are still made in the UK, but how many of those who insist on ‘buying locally’ make a point of wearing these items? Most will be shod in the same trainers and clothed in the same shirts from China or Vietnam as everyone else. So why is that permitted if it’s not okay to eat an imported tomato? Perhaps it’s the British taste for self-denial. Think of all those hair-shirted ascetics we’ve revered over the centuries: Sir Thomas More, Gandhi, Jeremy Corbyn…
“It’s not just about seasonality,” the vegetable martyrs protest. “Even if I didn’t eat seasonally, I’d never eat non-British tomatoes/asparagus/(insert any vegetable or fruit that grows in the UK) because ours are the best.”