<Chomp, chomp, chomp> This is great soil! The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

Hungry spectators and competitors alike know that once the final furrow is plowed at the Huron County Plowing Match, another tradition waits just beneath the surface, literally. We speak, of course, of The Chaff’s annual Overturned Soil Eat Off, a post-match contest that has, for better or worse, rooted itself into local lore.

 

First held in 1972 on a dare involving a tipped mug of hot chocolate, a suspiciously-clean shovel and a group of journalists with more bravado than common sense, the Eat Off has grown into a structured event with rules, judges, categories and a long line of devoted participants. Unlike most competitions, where talent, agility or intelligence determine victory, here the metric is simple and earthy: who can ingest the most soil in the allotted time without yielding to gag reflex or moral hesitation.

 

The process begins immediately following the crowning of the Huron County Queen of the Furrow. As soon as her sash is settled, volunteers fan out across the competition grounds with wheelbarrows to collect the choicest furrows of the day. Only freshly overturned earth qualifies; pre-plowed samples are disqualified to prevent unfair aeration advantages. Each mound is carefully examined for consistency of loam, distribution of clay and moisture content. Sandy soils, though easily swallowed, have long been banned, as past contests revealed their tendency to cause both unfair speed eating and regrettable post-match dryness of mouth.

 

Contestants, who must sign a comprehensive waiver absolving The Chaff of liability for all dental, gastrointestinal and existential complications, are then seated at long tables draped in burlap. Each is presented with an identical mound of soil weighing precisely one kilogram, weighed out on antique scales formerly used at the Brussels Livestock yards. An official starter, known locally as the “Soil Marshal,” blows into a hollowed-out corncob to commence the feast.

 

Competitors eat using only their bare hands. Cutlery, straws and any form of hydration are strictly prohibited until the whistle signals the end of the five-minute round. Attempts to flavour the soil by mixing in ketchup packets, squirting maple syrup or smuggling in hot sauce under a denim jacket are penalized by immediate disqualification.

 

Scoring is determined by the volume of soil consumed, with deductions made for spillage, smearing, or “soil stacking” (where earth is moved around the plate to feign progress). To prevent digestive disputes, all remaining contestants are escorted to a private tent where independent adjudicators conduct “the settling phase”, an indelicate but necessary part of confirming how much was truly ingested.

 

The Hall of Fame for the competition is a modest glass case in The Chaff’s office, containing photographs of past champions, several retired trowels and a ceremonial mason jar filled with a sample from the 1987 contest, widely remembered as “The Year of the Perfect Loam”. No fewer than three champions still insist the flavour of that soil remains unmatched, citing the favourable balance of humus and the subtle notes of decomposed soybean roots.

 

Ritual has also evolved over the years. Before each contest, a ceremonial furrow is plowed and sprinkled with water drawn from the Maitland River, symbolically blessing the soil. Competitors touch the furrow for luck, some choosing to smear a little across their cheeks like war paint. One year, a participant went so far as to bury their lucky nickel in the starting pile, declaring it an “investment in digestion”. They placed second.

 

The Eat Off has produced many legendary figures. There was Clarence “Claybaby” McDougall, a farmer from Blyth who, in 1979, consumed his entire kilogram of soil in under three minutes, then calmly asked if he could “polish off” his neighbour’s pile. The judges declined, but his appetite secured his place in history. Another household name is Phyllis Vandenhoek of Clinton, who in 2004 introduced the controversial “double-hand scoop” technique, a move now permitted but still viewed by purists as bordering on unsportsmanlike conduct.

 

While detractors argue that eating dirt is unbecoming of a county celebrated for its agriculture, supporters counter that the Eat Off embodies true appreciation of the land, literally consuming the fruits of the plow. Some even suggest that the minerals within contribute to stamina, citing several past winners who claim they’ve never caught a cold since their triumph. Nutritionists have declined to comment.

 

Each year, the event draws a growing crowd. Parents bring children, children bring shovels and onlookers leave with a new respect for the resilience of the human digestive tract.

 

Congratulations soil eaters! Keep believing in your dreams!