*I* wouldn't have minded if the arctic land bridge had been closed by magic
The local supermarkets have reasonable prepared meals, but I never buy an entree from the Italian one without being reminded of those poor Meiji envoys sent to the capitals of the west in search of culture, technology, post offices, school systems, navy organization and you name it. What they spent most of their time searching for was a bowl of rice. A plain bowl of rice. A bowl of plain rice. Something without butter, parmesan, herbs, bits of chicken, bits of mushroom and bits of things best not asked about, that hadn't been stewed in meat stock for an hour, stirring constantly until reduced to mush. Plain white rice cooked in just enough water for just enough time and separating into fluffy grains. They didn't get it, poor sods.
So basically, Fiesta Farms, I'll bear the tomato stock and peas but no, rot it, I do *not* want the corn niblets. Granted, had there been no first nations to cultivate the corn and tobacco and coffee beans that enticed my ancestors here in the first place, half of me would now be in Cumberland eating revolting bits of cow and the other half in Lyon eating unspeakable bits of pig. (Am not a fan of Lyonnaise charcuterie, which could almost give Cantonese cooking a run for its money in the 'we eat everything/ peasants can't be choosers' department.) However, half of me would be happily drunk on excellent wine, so I'd be content.