Well, I've done it again. Many of you know my uncanny ability to predict what movie and tv actors will say next, to predict what Joanne and Ed are making Ian and I for dinner, to see the future in a cup of tea leaves (alright, that last one might be a bit of a stretch...). But this time, I've really done it.
Last August, when Ian and I first moved to New Hampshire, and we were bored and had no friends and needed something to do other than watch one episode of Lost after another, we found a pick-you-own fruit farm, where we grabbed a flat of peaches, several bushels (or was it pecks?) of apples, and some fresh blueberries. Remember? And I wrote something hilarious and witty about the website stuffwhitepeoplelike, and how the author hadn't yet tapped into the whiteness of pick-your-own fruit farms, hadn't yet made the pithy suggestion that white people pay to do what migrant workers are paid pittance to do for hours and hours on end, but that he sure would soon.
Eight months later, and it's happened. I'm psychic. Literally psychic. Either that, or the author of the stuffwhitepeoplelike blog stumbled across my archive and realized how perfect of an entry you-pick-farms would make. Either way, I am hopelessly white. Sigh.