Ahhhh.... it's Farmer's Market season here again. Michigan has a shorter growing season, so our Market doesn't open until late June, but we try to take full advantage of it!

Here are ten reasons that your local Farmer's Market is the best food option anytime:

1) Meet The Source.

Instead of the pimple-faced kid randomly dropping your tomatoes on the floor before they get wedged into the stand, at the FM you usually buy your nightshade fruit from the guy who grew it. Grocery stores: who knows where that thing was grown, in what soil conditions, picked green, gassed to get some color, and shipped hundreds, if not thousands, of miles before it reaches you.

2) Get Your Hands Dirty.

Food prep, cooking, eating... all of this is a very tactile experience. I love bringing home gritty lettuce and squash, knowing that it was picked fresh from my native Northern Michigan soil within a few hours of me actually eating it! Washing dirt off the veggies, sand off the strawberries is a soothing and almost grounding (get it!?!) experience for me, and I feel like I know the texture and weight of the food better as I go to prep it. Naturally occurring dirt is also much better than...

3) No Stupid Stickers!

Don't you just love this: you're shredding an apple for your favorite oatmeal cookie recipe. The shredder balks and shudders, breaking your rhythm, and you discover tiny bits of shredded PLU sticker in your cookie batter. Awesome. No cash registers means no PLUs- means no irritating little oval stickers to peel off your food!

4) Support Your Local Economy.

This one is obvious. Who benefits more from the $30 you're spending on berries and stew ingredients: Wal-Mart, or the Amish guy in the neighboring community? Wal-Mart will just gouge another employee on their health insurance, while the farmer can buy more seed, feed his own family, or just exist another day.

5) It's Healthier.

Even if the farmers don't grow organic, your food is more ripe, more natural, less travelled, and more fresh than anything you could get at a grocery store. Honey will have local pollen which is (allegedly) better for any allergies you may have. Naturally sun-ripened fruits & vegetables have a higher vitamin count and nutritional benefit.

6) Lessen Your Carbon Footprint.

From Mexico to Indiana, or Indiana to Indiana? Again, this one's obvious. Also, most rural farmland has been around for years, rather than being a result of massive slash-and-burn desecration.

Another point is that many local farmers use Mason jars, paper bags, wooden bushels, etc. Re-used and reusable storage. No fancy packaging to pay extra for, them throw away. My local produce market has a $2 deposit on strawberry flats, and they wash and re-use the little wood slat quart boxes!

7) Alternative Economy Possibilities.

We haven't tried this one much yet, but have spoken to people who have: barter, trade, bulk discounts, etc. You're not dealing with a huge faceless corporation here, but one or two live people with needs and reasoning skills. Do you have a service or product to provide? I need to start tempting the honey lady with my jewelry designs...

8) People.

Tuesday, Mike and I bought a raw milk share (finally!). This morning, Mike went to pick up our first gallon and a half of rich ivory dairy- with cream all ready to skim off the top for butter! When he got to the farm, he got to meet 'our' cow and its calf, as well as some happy children who live on the farm. Kid #3 went with him and got to see piggies, cows, horses & chickens. She fed the calf, got manure on her sandals, and generally had a blast. How much better is this kind of life than the sterile, cloistered environments most Americans are used to obtaining their food in?

One day last year a young man occupied an empty market stall. Dressed in 1940s era clothing- white shirt, suspenders, & high-waisted trousers- he played ragtime on his guitar and sang lovely songs, old and new. We bought his CD and threw some money in his hat. Turns out he's an old friend of my brother-in-law, breaking into the major music markets. I went home with salad, fresh flowers, and a lift in my step from the great music. Isn't that better than the same Elton John song over and over on the Meijer radio system? I think so.

Every time we go to the Farmer's Market we form another little relationship. Some of the people there are work-hardened, weather-beaten folks with little of a friendly exterior. But others are just the salt of the earth- with canning advice, stories, and a bit of banter for everyone they meet.

9) Happy Animals.

All of the farmers that I've seen in my area are humane folk. Their chickens are free-range, their cattle eat lovely green grass, and their creatures run free instead of being penned in a miserable dark stall for most of their lives. I know many of you out there do not eat meat or dairy because of inhumane animal practices, but I believe that an animal treated better in its life will just be a better meal.

10) Eat the Seasons.
Strawberries and asparagus grace our markets right now. In a few weeks we'll have blueberries and patty pan squash. Not only are menus easier to plan (for me, at least) when you know what's ready to cook, but I've been hearing a lot of great things about the health benefits of eating seasonal fresh veggies and fruits.

Eating what the Earth produces- when it produces- is ecologically sound, financially beneficial, and tasty. I could not bear one more plastic clamshell container of strawberries last month! Now, for just a short and lovely season, I have ripe strawberries that are actually sweet, have juice in them, and were allowed to ripen in the sunshine!

I can't think of anything more beautiful, more natural, or more perfect than the bounty that the Farmer's Market offers. From maple syrup to hot peppers, you'll find me there sniffing and shopping and eating and living. I hope to see you there, too!

Labels: carbon footprint, cooking, eating, ecology, economy, farm, farmers market, food, fruit, gas, honey, money, natural, produce, vegetables

Kid #1 is, like many other young girls, enamored of the American Girls books. In one book, some WWII kid doesn't want to eat her mashed turnips (who would?). Someone- obviously desperate or evil- dresses them up with cinnamon and sugar, and the kid is transported to happy eating once again.

This uncanny combination struck my oldest child as so completely novel that she had to try it. She would no relent until we had some cinnamoned-and-sugared mashed turnips ourselves. Having only eaten turnips in things such as stews and pasties, Kid #1 really had no idea how they tasted on their own.

Being the control freak that I am, I tried explaining to her that turnips are bitter, cabbagey, and not conducive to sweet. She was undeterred. So we traipsed out to Meijer tonight and purchased some turnips. Kid #1 was enthralled at the lovely purple gradient on the side, the interesting scales where the leaves had been trimmed, and the perfect firmness of the tuber.

"Do you have cinnamon and sugar at home, mom, or do we need to buy it?" Kid asked.

"Oh, I always have cinnamon and sugar in my house." I replied flippantly, "It makes everything better."

"Which is why it will be perfect on mashed turnips!!" Kid crowed, actually clasping her hands in glee. That's what I get for my flippancy.

We straggled home after leaving a pretty sum of money at the grocery store, and Kid #1 immediately began searching for a peeler. We boiled water, chopped the blarmy rigid things without incident, and tossed them in, excitement building among the little ones. Michael and I looked over their heads at one another, shrugged, and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes later, we were far from the best. Mashed turnips look bad and taste awful, even with butter and milk. Add something that normally belongs on yummy toast, and you have a complete assualt on your senses. I made faces, but Kid #1 was crowing,

"Isn't it wonderful, mom? It's such a different taste!"

For all of my doubts, all of my silly groundless worries, it didn't even matter. She loved them, although I noticed a mostly-uneaten bowl sitting on the counter just now. Turnips are ridiculously cheap, I had maybe two dollars invested into the entire project- less than I would have spent on a movie. We got to learn about various root plants, and she got to actually try something that she had read about.

At the age of nine, she is going to be wanting to do a lot more of these things. I have always thought that I would have an easy time letting go of them, but I find it to not be so now. The maturity is fine- but worrying about burns and cuts and kitchen messes and wasted food gets to me. Most of all, I worry that they will be disappointed with the things they want to try.

These are needless worries! Of course all three kids will recieve burns and cuts and stitches! And I think that they will survive these things.
There will be messes and disasters and the occasional wasted food or destroyed pan- but they will leave my house knowing how to fend for themselves!

And disappointment- the only disappointment they will know is not having been allowed in the kitchen, if I keep up my current pace. But I will not. I know that it is time to start slowly letting go, gradually releasing my iron grip on these children and their minds and wills and imaginations.

There came a time when my own mom had to let me in the kitchen- and she grimly withstood burned hamburgers, clumpy rice, spicy potatoes, and watery eggs. I am ready to soldier up now and withstand my share of these, all the while teaching my children the science of cooking, the value of a dollar, and the importance of a happy kitchen. I hope I'm up for the task.

And I hope I don't run out of cinnamon.


We might try it on rutabegas next.

Labels: child rearing, children, cinnamon, cooking, experiment, food, kids, motherhood, recipe, turnips, weird

It's Friday night, you're burned out from a tough week at work, and dinner is an immediate necessity. Calling up your local pizzeria, you casually place an order for your favorite pie, never dreaming that the guy on the other end of the line is judging you by each item you choose.

How do I know these facts to be true? Have I walked the hallowed halls of Domino's? Have I kneaded the bread of the gods at Little Caesar's? Have I crouched for hours in a Pizza Hut?

I have done none of these things. I just know more than you, which is why I write this blog, and you read it.
So without further ado, I present to you
What Your Choice of Pizza Topping Says About You:

• CHEESE

Come on, just plain cheese? Are you four? Of all of the wonderful things on God's green earth, things that can be diced and sliced and baked into nummy cheese, and you pick- just. the. frickin'. cheese.
Cheese eaters not only would make a cool name for a band, but are more often than not afraid of change, afraid of challenge, and afraid of their own shadow. They tend to like partners as bland as their pizza, but secretly envy people who sky dive and aren't afraid to eat jalapeños. Cheese eaters will never get beyond careers as accountants, pencil counters, weed-pullers, and subway sweepers.

• PEPPERONI

Plain ol' pepperoni. A little spicy, a little greasy, a little run-of-the-mill. Just like you. Pepperoni eaters tend to be on 'default setting', often too preoccupied with inanities to break out of their box and choose a more interesting salvo. One thing that I have noticed in this lifetime is that you pepperoni-only eaters are not without hope! Things can be added, slowly and over time, to make your life more interesting. Next time, break out the big guns and have the pizza dudes throw on some, oh, I don't know- ONIONS!! Bwahahahahaah!

Sorry.

Next up,

• SAUSAGE

Sausage eaters are typically perverted, nasty little twerps. Why else would someone eat something that looks like giant rabbits pooped all over it? Sausage is greasy, feels like eating knuckles, and leaves you with heartburn for approximately two weeks. Therefore I must conclude that people who prefer a sausage-only pizza are stuck in dead-end jobs, wear thick glasses with scotch tape on them, and live in those apartments that us normal people pass up because of the funny smell inside. Not that you have no redeeming values, sausage eaters. Someone out there needs to keep making rainbow animated GIFs for their grandma's website. You know who I'm talking about.

• Supreme/Deluxe

Supreme or Deluxe, depending on where you live, generally features an eclectic smattering of meat, black olives, green pepper, onion, mushrooms, etc. Supreme fans are usually fairly well-rounded people, although cheap, with an eye towards variety and fun. They usually take a yearly vacation to somewhere like Mount Rushmore or Yosemite Park, and would be happy being married to the same person for many years, if only that person would content to stop sticking their dirty socks in the clean laundry bin. You, the Supreme pizza eater in your household, try not to wince as your ungrateful wretch of a ten year old picks his onions off of his overpriced pie. Those onions cost an extra $1.50, dagnabit. You eat your pizza, his onions, and then you swallow another Prilosec and guzzle down another root beer. Bowling night's gonna be tough this week.

• HAM

I'm going to go out on a limb here and hazard the guess that you're not Jewish. Or Muslim. Or, for that matter, Seventh Day Adventist.
You could very well be a Mormon, or you could be a Dago. I use the word Dago in the purest, least offensive form of the word, being one myself. There is something about ham that attracts certain Europeans: Italians, Greeks, Poles, Orinthologists. Ham eaters are generally high-stress, analytical, hypersensitive, and manic depressive. Oh wait, that's my family...
Ham eaters tend to be just a tiny bit more health conscious than pepperoni or sausage eaters, in the way that spiders are a tiny bit less scary than tarantulas. You like to trick yourself into thinking that your life is better than it is, that your skills are more than they actually are, that the only reason you've been passed over this time for that promotion is nepotism (it isn't). Ham eaters are destined to live a life of social unrest, due mainly to the fact that think they are better than others.

• MUSHROOM

Ah, the mushroom people. You are like a breath of fresh air. Intelligent, creative, articulate and passionate, you go through life inspiring and encouraging, redeeming and helping. No one could ever resent a mushroom eater, after all, they are cleansing the world of fungus! Wait- fungus? On pizza? What was I thinking!?!? I would have to say to mushroom eaters, besides all of the praising litany above, is that YOU ARE INSANE WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO EAT FUNGUS ON YOUR FOOD HOW DO YOU KNOW IT ISN'T STILL ALIVE AND WILL GROW MOLD INSIDE OF YOUR STOMACH AND THE WHITE FUZZ WILL OOZE OUT OF YOUR EYES AND THEN-

Mushrooms rock.

• MEAT LOVER'S

Well, for one thing, if you aren't morbidly obese, your cholesterol is through the roof. When I was a kid, one didn't see the disgusting love affair that we currently have with meat. Supreme, with pepperoni and sausage, was pushing the envelope. A pizza with only meat, and four or five kind of it, at that, shows that you are self-indulgent, greasy, and probably not kind to animals. Since you eat them all. On your pizza. With curdled cow's lactation on top. And smashed tomatoes.
You are probably also unwashed, stinky, and play too much WoW or some other MMORPG. Swilling down a 2-liter of Mountain Dew with that Meat Lover's also doesn't count as a square meal, in case you were wondering.

• HAWAIIAN

You sick, sick freak. You put what on your pie? A food that belongs on top of a banana split, that's what. I'll bet you can't even spell Hawaiian. Your kind tend to be weird- wearing clothes that went out of style fifty years ago, driving Gremlins, living in little hovels on the ground, voting Libertarian. You are as stubborn as the day is long, your hair is ratty, and your thighs have unequal mass. Find a new kind of pizza, and let the pineapple alone, for God's sake.

• 'WHITE' PIZZA
  

People who eat white pizza are either girls, or gay. Either way, you're high maintenance. If you find it in your heart to throw a bit of color on there, such as spinach or tomato, then I suppose you are salvageable. White pizza embodies all that is evil in today's fast food culture: white bread, white sauce, white cheese white toppings. It's almost racist. Is your entire house white, as well? How do you like your life now that you've finally stopped speaking to your mother and gotten that chin job you've always wanted? Guess what, white pizza lover? It's a dirty, dirty world out there and eating all-white food won't make it any cleaner.

• WEIRD CRAP, LIKE BUFFALO PIZZA

You, my friend, are just plain ignorant. There are things that go on pizza (e.g: tomatoes in some form of dessication, garlic, mozzarella cheese, onion, mushrooms...) and there are things that do NOT go on pizza. This would include anything with high fructose corn syrup as a main ingredient, anything deep fried, anything that should normally be eaten for breakfast (I'm talking to you, Japan!) and anything still breathing. You want Buffalo Pizza, with your Sweet Baby Ray's sauce and your thinly sliced buffalo wings, and your cheddar cheese- fine. It's good stuff. Just don't try blaming it on Italy. Just name it something appropriate, like Redneck Barbeque Cheese Chicken Bread.

Or not.

• ANCHOVIES

This one was almost too easy. Anyone who wants to eat a shriveled, salted, greasy, anonymous fish that probably was scraped off the bottom of a fisherman's shoe... well, fine. Go ahead and eat them, with their little slimy silver skins and their little salty brains and- and-
Seriously, what the hell? I'm not against seafood on pizza- I've enjoyed a nice crab and vegetable pie before- but how masochistic does one have to be to eat these things? Oh, I know, once you've tried them you'll understand, you have to develop a taste for them, whatever. I could also, I suppose, develop a taste for road salt, since thats about what they taste like. Or tumors, since that's what they feel like. Or- I'm going to stop now. Pizza truck is here.

Labels: anchovies, anchovy, cheese, eating, food, life, pepperoni, personality, pizza, sausage, tomato

Gatlinburg, Tennessee, 1989. I was twelve, just beginning to take an interest in life outside of fairy tale books.

At that time my dad owned a little floundering jewelry store on the sixth floor of the Mountain Mall. I would come to work most days with him, doing my best to help wait on the few customers, occasionally puttering with the wax that has since become my life. I had friend next door whose dad owned both the fur and carpet shops on our floor. We would play together, catching crawfish in the river out back or burying ourselves beneath Oriental rugs in the storeroom. A couple of floors down was a magic shop, and if I stopped by long enough I was guaranteed a demonstration of the latest novelty trick. Escalators connected all six floors, and my sisters and I would take turns racing the wrong way, courting scoldings from some of the other store proprietors. At the time, Gatlinburg residents got into most of the tourist traps for free, and I’d spend long happy hours inside Ripley’s Believe It Or Not and Fannie Farkle’s.

I had a lot of freedom back then, my dad was too preoccupied with life to be overly concerned with me. He’d often give me three bucks to get a Wendy’s salad down on the ground floor. That was back in the day of the legendary Superbar. Don’t you wish they’d bring that back? My thirty-year old GI tract probably couldn’t handle it now.

My favorite thing to do that summer was hit the salad section of the Superbar, loading that plastic plate high with lettuce, peas, mushrooms, red onions and croutons. I’d pop a few cherry tomatoes on the side, scatter sunflower seeds all over the place (once I picked the raisins out and carefully put them back. Man, I was a nasty kid) and ladle a generous amount of their lovely ranch dressing all over. I can still taste that salad in all its vernal perfection.

One sticky summer day I walked downstairs as usual, clutching my paltry three dollars in the pocket of my hot pink jumpsuit. (Don’t you love the 80s? Bad fashion and food for less than ten dollars…) I rounded the corner, carefully stepping on the parquetry flooring that ran parallel to the street, and came up short in front of Wendy’s.

The Superbar was closed for cleaning.

Being a hungry adolescent, I wasn’t about to wait forty minutes for the thing to be restocked and reopened. I needed food, and soon. My eyes cast around for another idea. I knew that the restaurants up the street were fairly expensive, and didn’t want to venture outside of the mall that day. The only other choice that presented itself to me was the Irish pub next door to the tobacconist’s. I’d never set foot inside, but I’d seen people eating at the long laminated bar. I stepped inside,

“Bit early in the day to start drinking, eh?” The voice came from a handsome man, dark hair setting off eyes that crinkled at the corners. He sounded different from the natives I’d grown accustomed to, a Yankee accent, like mine. I smiled shyly at him and was rewarded with further eye-crinkling.
“I-I just need lunch.” I stammered, embarrassed to be in this den of adulthood.
He jerked his thumb at a dry-erase board, still almost a novelty back then. The board hung on the wall behind the bar, between signs for Guinness and Budweiser, elixirs which I would remain innocent of for another several years. Scrawled on the board were prices for the standard bar burger, some sort of chili dog with too many toppings, and something called an Irish Taco.

It was exactly $3.00.

“I’ll take that, please.” I pointed at the bottom line on the whiteboard and spread my bedraggled dollars on the bar. The handsome face grinned, told me to have a seat, and ducked under the bar for a carryout container.
I clambered up on the tall stool and sat watching his back. He moved with an easy grace, one that I’ve since come to know as congruous with that of an experienced bartender. He opened a foil packet of Fritos, dumped them into the black plastic dish, and tossed the bag in the trash without looking. In the little food prep station, there was a chafing dish on simmer. He flipped the lid open, winked at me in the mirror, and poured a heaping ladle of chili all over the Fritos.
“You like spicy stuff?” he asked. I nodded dumbly. I didn’t notice it particularly then, but now I remember that he never called me ‘kid’, ‘squirt’, or any of the other demeaning nicknames grownups often tag children with.

Maybe that’s why I fell in love with him.

Or maybe it was the beautiful way he handled things, like he gloried in the simple pure contact with everyday things. I had often watched my mom chop tomatoes- chop, chop chop! I had even done it myself, but never had I seen someone bend his head over the cutting board and carefully, almost tenderly, cut a razor-thin perfect round slice of the red fruit. To this day I cannot slice a tomato like that, it always has one edge thicker or angled off.

He threw a dollop of sour cream on top of the chili, then threw those perfect tomato slices all over, not caring in the least for his masterpiece of shaving.

I had never been interested in an older man until that point. Looking back now, in order to have worked in a liquor establishment, he must have been at least 21, but he seemed young to my twelve year old eyes. He had a solid and lovely chest under the ratty tee shirt, and his white apron draped easily on well-proportioned hips.
“Want a beer, too?” his light mocking caught me off-guard.
“No thank you.” I replied, blissfully unaware of the fact that I wouldn’t have even been able to order one.
“Then how about green onions, on top of the taco? It comes with it, but most people don’t want them.”
Green onions have always been a weakness of mine.
“Oh, of course!”
“Good!” he smiled, and his eyes crinkled again, “It’s the only way to eat it.” Whereupon he proceeded to sprinkle finely minced green all over my lunch.

With that same rapid grace, he flipped a lid onto the mess, slid it across the bar towards me, and punched keys on the register. It came to $3.12
“Oh!” I flushed, panic setting in, “I only have the three d-“
“Don’t worry about it!” he cut me off, waving away my protestations, “I’ve got it. Enjoy your lunch.”

I don’t remember getting back to the store, five flights of stairs with that hot dish in my hands. My heart was hammering as I scrambled onto the stool near my dad’s repair bench. Opening the box, I could almost feel myself salivating, and I can taste that first bite to this very day.

Every respectable bar has at least one dish that they cook well. For some, it’s a burger, others- wings. In South Bend, there’s an Irish pub that makes a divine stew, liberally seasoned with Guinness Stout. For this bar, whatever its name was, the dish was chili. Meaty, spicy, rich and warm, their chili was perfect. Coupled with the salty corn chips, cool sour cream, and the fresh tomato and green onion, it was a dish I would be happy to eat at any elegant restaurant.

Irish Tacos soon trumped Wendy’s Superbar for lunch. Not only did they taste better, but no one at Wendy’s flirted gently with me, or gave me free New York Seltzer Chocolate Seltzers, or cut their tomatoes with such a craftsman’s hand. I made sure to always bring four or five dollars after that, leaving the change in a little pile on the bar top for my Chili Knight. We moved away late that summer and I have never been back, not in all of these eighteen years since. I’ve encountered the same dish since, called anything from Walking Tacos to Chili Pie, but no one (not even me!) has ever made it taste quite as good.

So wherever you are, man that cuts tomatoes nicely and is friendly to shy children, thank you.

Labels: bar, bar food, childhood, chili, corn chips, first crush, first love, food, fritos, gatlinburg, lunch, summer, superbar, taco, tennessee, tomato, tomatoes, wendy's