Riley's apple farm: phobic bigots

[LSPoorEeyorick]

I love cider. I was hoping to get some to serve with homemade donuts this weekend, or perhaps apples to stuff and bake. Tom did a little research and came up with Riley's apple farm, which EH and I visited a few years ago. It was fun - I miss farms, and I especially miss apple season in Michigan.

Looking through the website, though, I was a little stunned to see that their "farm blog" is not so much a blog about farming as it is a political blog. I'm going to quote some of it here because I was just so stunned.

Originally Posted by Riley's Farm Blog

I don't believe I had ever heard of a vomitophor until I was about nine years old, and then only in very hushed tones. I sensed that there was something forbidden about the topic because when I asked about it, my dad turned on the radio right away and said, "let's see if we can get the Dodger game."

And then one day, we held a birthday party for a neighborhood kid around our backyard pool, and Chad Coombs threw up in the shallow end. None of the mothers wanted us to swim after that, and Freddy Marchand--a big kid who had been looking forward to swimming all day--just let go with a vomitophor scolding. "Friggin' up-chuck head," he yelled, "Barf brain. Vo-MIT-ophor!"

My mother, who always believed in a direct approach, sat all the kids down and said, "Freddy. I want you to apologize to Chad. He just has an upset stomach. He is NOT a disgusting vomitophor."

"What IS a vomitophor?" Susie Dahlquist asked.

Mother's voice became very quiet. "It's someone who..who has a psychological condition, a sickness."

"What KIND of sickness?" I asked.

Mother bit her lip and then said. "It's someone who shows their sick, twisted love for someone else by, by, throwing up on them."

"Grooooossss," went the chorus of children, on cue, after a pause to consider the enormity of the depravity being considered.

"Freddy," Mother said, "apologize to Chad. He is NOT a vomitophor. That's a horrible thing to say about someone."

"Yeah," Chad said, a little urgently, "I was just throwing up in the pool. Not ON someone."

"Groooooossss."

Well, as time went by, that natural revulsion we all felt was re-visited when, as a teenager, I asked mom if there was something a little strange about Mr. Kibley, a bachelor in his fifties, who sometimes visited the house.

"He's just never found the right girl," Mom said.
"Dad says he's a vomito--"
"I don't think that's the case. And if it is, just, just pray for him. The poor soul keeps it to himself."

When I compare the sort of revulsion we all felt for this condition years ago to the almost sacrosanct position, as a lifestyle, it now enjoys, I have come to believe that cultural standards, in a democracy, are really just subject to the whim of whichever group can yell and scream the loudest. Think about it. At one time, vomitophoria was classified as a mental illness, and now you have to teach your children it's merely a different kind of love. They call it radiant now. (I used to like that word.) Major corporations need to show they have vomit-friendly hiring policies. You can't turn on a network sitcom without seeing a barf smooch. Churches have had to change their wedding vows. Instead of kissing the bride, you now have to be prepared for someone...well..you know. There are poor little orphan kids who have to wade through this nonsense, literally, because vomitophors have demanded the right to adopt children.

And if you don't go along with this, if you have the audacity to say, "heah, people, get a sink, will you?" you're accused of being a hate monger.

I don't think "accused" is the right word. I think "correctly labeled" is. And I think I'll find my fresh cider elsewhere this year.