This warm, mid-April finds me an extra happy camper. Not only is my Spring garden off to an early, robust start, but the coming weekend also signals the beginning of farmers’ market season (the first of my regular stops, the Bellevue Market in Northern Kentucky, opens Saturday.)
Oh, fresh, snappy Greens, I have missed you so much.
It’s one of the greatest joys of summer weekends, hitting the farmers’ markets on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I’m a contented Midwestern girl, and I don’t envy folks on the coasts … except for their year-round access to greenmarkets. Here in Ohio, open-air market season is still primarily summers-only, although farmers are doing their best to reasonably extend the season at both ends.
The long stretch of winter and absence of markets really does make the heart grow fonder, however, and by March — after months of brown food — you’ll find me keeping constant vigil on the local news, waiting to hear when the markets will open for the season. Cincinnati, like many cities, experienced an explosion of farmers’ markets in recent years, and we have not one or two, but over a dozen significantly-sized shopping options throughout the week, in locations all over the city. If you live in Cincinnati, you’re less than 15 minutes away from a farmers’ market.
And, in general, more Americans now have direct access to locally raised produce and meat than at any time in the last 50 years. And it’s all thanks to the farmers’ market.
You might be a veteran shopper, like myself, or completely new to the scene. Either way, it’s a completely different experience from the grocery store. I’ve compiled some tips to help everyone get the most out of the coming season. Hope you find them useful!
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Several years ago, I had one of those jobs. You know, the worst job you’ve ever had. Everybody has those. The stories we could share, right? And one of the many pains of this company was the person responsible for the software budget, officed in Cupertino, CA. Silicon Valley. Headquarters of Apple. Once ranked #2 by Forbes as the most educated small city in the U.S.
Anyway. One day, an emergency project came along in our little ole Northern Kentucky office, and I needed Photoshop. I called “Dano” [name changed, etc.] to get approval before running out to purchase a thousand dollars worth of software on my personal credit card.
His reply: “Of course it’s approved!” he chirps happily. [Long pause.] “I’m just not sure how to get it to you.”
Me: “What do you mean?” I asked, fingering my car keys and calculating time in my head. It’s 10 minutes there, 5 minutes in-store, 10 minutes back….
Dano: “Well, it’s a really large download and could take a while.”
Me: “What do you mean, ‘download?’ I’m not going to download this thing — that would take hours on our office connection. I’m just going to run out and buy the box.”
Dano: [crickets]
Me: “Hello?”
Dano: “Um, how do I put this? Do you guys even have software stores out there?”
Me: [headdesk]
So, what’s my point, you ask, Patient Reader? Irony, is my point. Oh, the irony.
Over the years, I’ve grown some 30 or 40 varieties of tomatoes. It’s been an utter joy, and regardless of how I felt about the final product — some varieties are better than others — the effort was always worth it, no matter how hot or miserable the weather. To this day, online seed stores, like TomatoFest.com, are to me what shoe stores are to others: I could browse for hours and never tire of it.
For the last two or three years, I’ve grown almost exclusively black tomatoes. Their complex, smoky flavors and gorgeous burgundy/purple/green skins are jewels to my eyes and bliss to my taste buds. Brandywines are gorgeous, nearly perfect, red/pink tomatoes, but they can’t hold water to Black Krims, and their smaller cousins, the Black Cherry.
And apparently, I’m not alone in that belief.
Not so coincidentally — for the last two or three years [ahem] — critters have begun to invade my tomato gardens, setting their sights on my Black Krims and Purple Cherokees. I wasn’t certain what was happening at first: the tomatoes were simply disappearing off the vine. Poof! I’d spy a nearly perfectly ripe Black Krim hiding in the back, and, rubbing my hands together like a greedy, toothy cartoon character, I’d retreat for the evening, planning to pull the tomato the next day for dinner. By morning, it was gone. No footprints. No signs of forcible entry (no broken branches). Just gone.
Harrumph.
2011 marks my first year growing eggplant. I’ve had an odd relationship with eggplant, unable to decide whether I really like it or merely tolerate it.
The jury’s now in: thanks to some very tasty crops, I have to give it the thumbs up. I should’ve known it would find my favor: it’s a member of the nightshade family, which includes tomatoes, peppers and potatoes — my very favorites.
Like many summer vegetables, eggplant takes right to the grill, absorbing smoky notes that accent its summery squash flavor. It also takes right to one of my favorite fast dinners: shakshuka.
This recipe, along with many of its siblings, was my happy little secret. Like being the only one privy to the spectacular Van Gogh tucked away in the attic.
Its author once ran in Hollywood circles, but was still relatively unknown as a baker outside of the state where she resided. Her stuff, however, was fabulous. The real thing. Not some schmuck barely graduating from box mixes while getting regular injections of capital and publicity from her superstar relative. No, a baker’s baker.
I was also one of the few Americans who knew how to pronounce her first name, which I first saw years and years ago printed in a paparazzi rag under a photo of her and her sister, arm-in-arm at some red carpet event or other. I studied German literature in grad school. I knew a good German name when I saw it.
There’s much to love about summer produce. When the days grow long and the thermometer inches up past 95°F, I can tell you that one of the last things I want on my tummy is something heavy, creamy and starchy.
That doesn’t mean, of course, that I don’t love those things. (Gasp! Bite thy tongue!) But when I’m sweltering from my blood vessels to my scalp to my toes, I can only stomach things chilly, crisp and bright.
This zucchini-starring vegetable dish is just the thing for a Saturday lunch following a scorching, dripping, manic weeding session in the carrot patch. No oven, no stove. Minimal mixing. Just a little prep work. Chilly, crisp and bright.
The first year I grew butternut squash, I was blessed with what you could only term Beginner’s Luck. I certainly didn’t do anything to deserve the harvest that resulted from my accidental efforts.
And the one conscious decision I made that seemed right was also laughably wrong: I planted the seeds smack dab in the middle of my garden, leaving not nearly enough leg room for happy vines that climbed everything vertical, including my tomato plants. This location, however, meant the plants would be right on the bee superhighway I had laid through my yard. Fluffy bumblebees and strictly-business honeybees hopped from oregano flower to pepper flower to dahlia to squash flower to lavender, picking up pollen here and leaving pollen behind there.
It was a huge, beautiful harvest.
