A guy came to my door today selling fish. More specifically, a ratty old blue mini-pickup pulled up in front of my house, a truck with a chest freezer in the bed, and a guy got out and came bounding up my steps with the false cheer of a true door-to-door salesman. I was on a conference call at the time, and I tried to get rid of him by telling him I was on a call, that I work at home. “What time do you get off work?” he said. “I don’t buy things from people who come to the door,” I told him. He looked both miffed and amused, and bounded down my steps with a bounce in his step that implied it was my loss, that I was missing out on the Amazing Deal he’d brought Right To My Door.
First of all — I’m going to buy food from some stranger who drives up to my door with a chest freezer in the back of his truck? I know I’m a little nutty about provenance, and that I’m probably more invested than most people in buying food from sources I can identify, but really, I’m not buying food from an icky stranger who bounces up my front steps as though he’s about to push his way in and demo a vaccuum cleaner. Sheesh. Go away.