Here’s the story. After you read it, I’ll give you the addendum -- coming under the category One-Story-Leads-To-Another -- that a woman in Merrimack told me a couple weeks ago.
From Headin’ for the Rhubarb: A NH Dictionary (well, kinda):
buttah Made from cow milk churned until it’s solid. The city boy sat on the milking stool ready to milk his first cow. He looked the belly and udders all over, then, confused, said to the farmer, “How do you turn it on?”
The farmer said, “Pull her tail.”
During the Depression, money was in short supply, so folks bartered: eggs for flour, hay for soap, bacon for codwood. A woman came into Hod Hastin’s store with a pound of buttah that had a daisy embossed on top from the butter press. She said, “I’d like to trade this pound of buttah for a pound of buttah.”
“Why?” Hod asked.
“Well,” she said, “If you must know, after I finished churning the buttah, I looked and in the bottom of the churn was a dead mouse. I screamed, the kids come runnin, saw the cahcass, and refuse to eat the buttah. So I thought I’d trade this pound for another pound, because what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”
Hod said, “I think I can help you, ma’am.” He took the pound of buttah to the back of the store, scraped the daisy off the top and carved in an apple. Back at the counter, he handed the buttah to the woman. “You are absolutely right, ma’am,” he said. “What yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”
One Story Leads to Another
At the Merrimack Library, a woman, upon hearing this story, recalled the oleo substitute for real butter used during WWII. Her father hated it! Refused to eat it. It was an oily white concoction to which yellow food coloring would be added to make it look more like butter.
Her mother took matters into her own hands. She’d mix up the oleo, then put it in a butter press so it would have the shape and embossing of homemade butter.
“Oh,” father would say, “homemade butter. That’s the stuff.”
Guess Mother figured out that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. What yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh