I grew up in the countryside. My husband is aghast that I would know things about cow insemination or that I eat berries off the bush (because I know what kind of berries they are). He marvels that I know at which time the elderberries are ripe (not now, husband) or that I can identify rapeseed by smell.
He, on the other hand, is very much a city boy. His mother taught him never to eat anything off a tree or a bush, and he's deeply suspicious of unprocessed foods. If it doesn't have a wrapper, it might be toxic.
Today, Alan's class went to visit a farm. Now, Fladungen is rural and that means the kids walked 200 yards down the street and stood in a cow stable. He had a grand time, taking photos with his new camera which have somehow a distinct 70s feel to them, and came home talking about cows.
Alan: "But I didn't drink the milk straight from the cow."
Claudia: "Why not? That's the best milk, it's so good for you!"
Douglas, in the background, muttering under his breath with utter horror: "Raw milk? Straight from the cow?"
Alan: "Naw, I like my milk better from the supermarket."
Genes are powerful.