CHAPTER TWO
Not very long ago, Americans learned that a part of the cranberry crop then on the market was thought to be contaminated by a carcinogenic agent. The cranberry industry was almost wrecked by this disclosure; housewives not only shunned the shipments that allegedly contained the agent, but also temporarily boycotted all other forms of this fruit—juices, jellies and sauces, whether fresh or frozen or canned, and even when they were known to be made from berries just as pure as cranberries should be.
And despite frantic countermeasures which included juice-drinking and jelly-tasting in Washington by distinguished public officials—accompanied by widespread publicity contending that one would have to eat mountains of contaminated berries in order to be adversely affected—most Americans, in the name of better health, resolutely resisted tradition and temptation. That year our holidays were berry-less.
Mine were. But at thanks giving dinner, somewhere between the turkey and the pudding, we began to talk about cranberries; and one of the guests raised an interesting question. “Why is it,” he asked, “that one public announcement about a relatively small number of berries can produce a boycott—while twenty years of hullabaloo about cigarettes and cancer has had absolutely no effect on tobacco sales?”
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