Toward Peace 'n Quiet: July 2017

Handy Husband and I have the whole thing plotted out…

"Echo, set the alarm for 5:30 a.m.”

“Alarm set for 5:30 a.m., tomorrow."

Wednesday morning we will shower, dress and gulp down homemade smoothies before we make an hour-plus drive to the nearest big city, (the third largest in our state with a city-population of 150,000 or metro-area population of 344,000). We must arrive at our destination right on the hour.

Handy Husband pulls our car into the parking lot with only moments to spare. We each grab a couple of tote bags and head straight to our separate predetermined stations…

Wait! Did I ever tell you that Handy Husband and I have this bad habit of secretly nicknaming people we meet on life’s path? No? Well, it's confession time, then. I’ll give you a couple of examples: There is a woman from our area that we run into on occasion as she walks her dog. This lady is a verbose fast-talker, the kind that spews out words quickly and in an excited manner, as if her audience will vaporize before she has finished her say. I find myself looking at her mouth to see just how she forms words so rapidly. Anyway, her name is Patricia and we’ve renamed her Chatty-Patty. Another acquaintance from this area is a man with a genial, effervescent wife, but he’s kind of a pill, always with his arms folded across his chest and a sour look on his face, so that they are quite the contrast. We refer to her by her given name. We refer to him as "Grumpy Cat." (Note: Names and nicknames have been changed to protect the innocent.)

We usually never nickname the people with whom we eventually become friends. Maybe we instinctively sense their potential as future pals. They call that “chemistry,” right? Like Rick and Cheryl, for example. We met them shortly after we made the permanent move here. From day one they have been simply, “Rick and Cheryl.” Nobody would ever nickname a friend, would they!? But every once in a while… Someone we referred to as “Spike” later became our pal with the real first and last name of… Well, I'd better not say, as I think perhaps Spike may read my blog. Anyway Spike is no longer Spike.

The problem with our moniker-markers is that we are getting older and our brains are not as sharp. Handy Husband walks in the house after running an errand and says, “Okay, we gotta quit this nicknaming business. I ran into Nan at the store and for the life of me all I could think of was “Ethel.” (We’d renamed Nan because she was a dead-ringer for Big Ethel in the original Archie comics with her big-boned frame and untamable hair).

So anyway, back to Handy Husband and I at the Farmer’s Market. Had you guessed that was where we were headed that early morning with our tote bags? We have been suckers for farmer’s markets forever, it seems. We made weekly trips to the Evanston market when we resided in Chicago. The funny thing is out here, in a rural agricultural county with a population density of 35 humans per square mile, and even though we are surrounded by farms, a good farmer’s market (the pivotal word being “good”) is hard to find. There is a fair farmer’s market about 20 miles away that we visit weekly and a couple of poor ones even closer. But the farmer’s market in the big city? Well, it is definitely worth a twice-monthly visit.

There are over 2 dozens vendors at the big city market, 75 percent of which are what I consider "legitimate farmers,” meaning they actually own a farm and grow the goods they sell. The name and location of their farm is proudly displayed. You can look them up on online and see photographs of their farms. The fruits and vegetables they sell match the growing season, so that they are not selling ripened tomatoes (supposedly grown in zone 5) ready for market in the month of May. Most FM’s have a couple of illegitimate vendors who buy bulk vegetables and resell them as “farm fresh.” But my trained eye and a couple of questions can quickly expose them ;)

The reason we arrive at the opening bell of this FM is that much of what I want sells out quickly. It’s not worth a 100+ mile round trip commute to find that what you’re looking for is gone. So Handy Husband and I split up for the first round, he heads to the egg lady to purchase my duck eggs. (Many bakers and cooks feel that duck eggs are superior to chicken eggs for baking and custards. Perhaps it’s the slightly different albumen that duck eggs have, or the extra protein and fat found in duck eggs. At any rate, I’m a believer.) Meanwhile I will have gone straight to Chestnut Cliff Farms to pour over their myriad assortment of organic, heirloom vegetables and their wild mushrooms. Then I head quickly across the way to “The Sloth.”

The Sloth is our nickname for the bread vendor. Even though at this point we are still only minutes into the opening of the market, The Sloth has a long line formed at his booth. He has brought his wares from another 73 miles further away. Hands down, he sells the best bread I have ever eaten. It is baked with organic heirloom wheat, unadulterated by preservatives, additives or chemicals, simply wheat, water, salt and yeast. The delicious flavor of this bread comes from a 36 hour fermentation. The Sloth also sells amazing croissants, such as you would purchase in Paris, France as well as outstanding specialty breads, like raisin-walnut or herbed focaccia. Part of the reason there is always a long line at his booth is that his products are just that good. The other part is that he moves in slow motion and you simply cannot make him move any faster than is in his DNA, apparently. Have you seen Disney Studio’s Zootopia? The movie has this brilliant part where Nick takes Judy to Zootopia’s Dept. of Motor Vehicles to aid her in running a license tag. The DMV is staffed entirely by sloths. Hysterical!!

Our sloth moves and speaks in a manner similar to the cartoon sloths. As he looks you directly in the eye, he repeats your order/question/statement; so if I were to say, “And one chocolate-almond croissant, please.” He would reply, “You (pause) also (pause) want (pause) one (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissant?” (There is nothing wrong with the man, he has no disability of any kind, he is just a man who prefers to live in the moment and be a part of a bread process that takes days not hours to complete.) He will slowly turn and judiciously ponder the chocolate almond croissants, before selecting one for you. Then, languidly wrap it in a parchment and in his unhurried manner carefully bag it with the bread(s) you've also requested. He will then turn slowly back to face you, look you in the eye and thank you as he softly hands you your purchase. (I’d love to witness The Sloth and Chatty Patty in a conversation.)

As I wait in the bread line I watch The Sloth as he cares for customers ahead in line, anxiously awaiting my turn. I have a crush-like fascination with him. If after this life I return as another creature I would wish it to be a sloth.

Meanwhile Handy Husband has a mental list of vegetables and fruits in which I am interested. Duck eggs clutched in hand, Handy Husband checks out the rest of the vendors, comparing prices and occasionally reporting back, “The "So&So" Farm has golden beets a dollar cheaper than the “OtherRandom” Farm. If something looks like it’s moving fast, he'll report and I’ll dispatch Handy Husband to purchase it.

I am next in the bread line, so Handy Husband sweeps off to get two cups of coffee for us from a nearby breakfast shop. “Is (pause) he (pause) with (pause) you?” asks The Sloth, with the slowest and slightest tilt of his head in Handy Husband's direction. “Yes.” “Well, (pause) then (pause) you (pause) will (pause) need (pause) two (pause) chocolate (pause) almond (pause) croissants. (pause) *smile* (pause) *wink*

Handy Husband and I split the generous croissant and walk about, casually this time, as we do our second round of the Farmer’s Market, sipping coffee, eating our shared croissant, taking in the sights and sites.

I buy a quart of real strawberries (as different from the bloated white-in-the-middle strawberries sold at supermarkets as a homegrown tomato is from the flavorless supermarket tomato). The strawberry vendor informs me it is his last week of strawberries, as his season ends in June. I then purchase golden, white and red beets, English peas, sugar snap peas, new turnips, and kohlrabi. Handy Husband has bought some radishes and raw honey.

The sugar-snap-pea-guy tells me of another, out-of-state market he sells at on Saturdays. It’s 75 miles away from his farm. This FM features 150+ vendors! I look it up online and see that it is listed in a Washington Post article as one of the top ten farmer’s markets in the nation, ranking number six. Pretty impressive, however it will take some planning as this market opens at 6:30 a.m., sharp and it will be an 170+ mile round-trip for us.

“Echo, set the alarm for 4:00 a.m.”...

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” -J.R.R. Tolkien

kohlrabi, white, red and golden beets

tri-color beets, so pretty when cooked together

can you see the richer colored, larger yolk on the duck egg on the left? also a whiter, clearer albumen. contrast the two chicken eggs on the right which have (pardon my language) "piss-yellow" albumen