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I asked myself some big questions over the holidays.  The day before Thanksgiving, one of my former students reported via social media that the fresh turkey she had ordered from a well-known national grocery store had a coating of ice on it.

Ice.  On a fresh turkey.

This naturally led me to wonder, why does a fresh turkey have a coating of ice?  Keeping it on ice is one thing, but that would have to be some mighty cold ice to chill the air above it to create a coating of ice on top of the bird.  Was this some kind of harbinger of global warming?

It turns out that, according to a site my student found that I have since lost track of, turkeys can be considered fresh as long as they are never stored at less than 26 degrees.  That’s colder than the freezing point for water, but apparently, since it can rain when it’s colder than 32 degrees, that’s good enough for calling a turkey fresh.

The next big question occurred at Arby’s, the place that used to pride itself on being the alternative to hamburger fast food.  I made my annual trek there, only to discover, not only was Arby’s now in the hamburger business; it was in the Wagyu hamburger business.

This I had to try, even though the price was outrageous (although, as long as we’re here, what is up with the price of a Big Mac?)

I hit part of the patty on the first bite, and it tasted a lot like—a hamburger.  As did bites two, three, and four.  This was far from the dining experience I hoped for, and it left me wishing I had asked for some Horsey Sauce to make the meal interesting.

I left the experience wondering what the big deal was about Wagyu beef.  It turns out that Arby’s Wagyu hamburger is 51% Wagyu, and 49% not-Wagyu—and since the two were intertwined, it left a composite burger that didn’t taste all the different from a regular burger.  At least it didn’t have a coating of ice on it.

Fast forward to after the holidays, when my news feed showed a watch made with the mascot of my alma mater.  My school tends to get less publicity than most, so I admired the quality of the item, then wondered how much it might cost.

$495.

My alma mater was one of the first land grant colleges, opened for the express purpose of offering higher education opportunities for nontraditional students, especially those in rural areas. I didn’t major in agriculture, and I wasn’t exactly a nontraditional student, but I left the school’s hallowed halls realizing that society, as a whole, could pay a little more attention to those in need.

After checking the price of the watch, I remembered another ad I’d seen on my feed from a food pantry in Detroit. Based on their assertions, I figured I could buy a $100 watch, and donate $395 to the food pantry, which could then use it to feed a family of four for six months.  I don’t know if that would allow them to eat any Wagyu burgers or freshly iced turkeys, but still.

The watchmakers proudly boasted they are a Made in Detroit company, creating visions of blue-collar roots.  But a careful review of their website shows the average watch they make costs $595, and they make a men’s bike that costs almost $3000.

And so the new year finds me second guessing the meaning, and value, of the labels I see—or more important, assign.

January

We propped the sun up
With twinkle lights
And plastic Santas
Richly rewarded
With glowing sunsets before dinner.
And now the sky
Glows clear through dessert.
Having got the clue
The closest star
Responds when needed.
Exemplary, no?

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