Wonder what they think about all these middle-class people tramping the fields paying money for a taste of the backbreaking work that, for the most part, only people risking their lives to flee Third World countries are willing to perform in New England. And it doesn't taste all that much better than what you buy at the store. But you end up coring a whole lot of apples for not a whole lot of sauce. Plus, half the household likes it with raisins and cinnamon, half don't. Let's face it.
Every place needs a myth.
You can't live anyplace else. No place else has a restaurant you can go to, a show worth seeing, or a job worth doing. New England has this myth of easygoing happiness and harmony. It makes a good painting. So we drive our carbon-monoxide machines over interstates to what's left of farmland to pay to play farm worker for an afternoon.