The Farmers' Market: Theory and Practice

It has taken awhile, but I think I have finally admitted something to myself that I've been trying to repress for several years now: I don't much enjoy shopping at the farmers' market.

In theory, I should. I'm a would-be locavore, into the homegrown, the homemade, the handcrafted. I want all of my food to come from within a five-mile radius of my house. I want to be friends with the grass-raised, free range cows that eventually will become the T-bones smoking on my grill.

And it's not that I don't like what I buy at the farmers' market. It's almost always very good, though every once in awhile you are reminded that a locally grown tomato can taste just as lousy as one shipped in from California. I love the way farmers' market stuff smells, I love how sometimes bits of dirt--local dirt! organic dirt!--are still stuck to the beets and the freshly dug new potatoes. The vegetables really do taste fresher and more flavorful than what I buy at the grocery store. The eggs have rich yellow yolks. You can just tell they came from happier chickens than the eggs you get at the Harris Teeter.

No, it's not what I buy at the farmers' market that's the problem. It's the actual experience of going to the farmers market and buying things that gets on my nerves.

Some of it may have to do with my city's particular farmers' market. For one thing, while it's great to see so many farmers making a living, everybody seems to be selling the same stuff. Right now the market is a big pile of tomatoes and peppers and summer squash, one table after another, table after table after table.

Now, if you're a competitive shopper, someone who loves to get a bargain, then there's plenty of fun to be had. But I'm one of those people who freezes up when there are too many choices. I make bad choices. I suffer from chronic buyer's remorse. So it would be better for me personally if there were one farmer selling tomatoes, and one selling peppers, and one selling organic honey, and so on and so on and so on. Instead, there are approximately a hundred farmers selling approximately the same goods, and they all vary their prices just enough to give me a stress headache.

Okay, now I'm going to be brutally honest: My fellow farmers' market shoppers bug me. You can get a picture of the crowd by walking around the parking lot and reading the bumperstickers--there are no McCain supporters; everybody's voting for Obama come November. You are urged to Eat Local, Co-Exist, Impeach Bush, and Kill Your Television.

I am not a Bush supporter, will be voting for Obama come fall, try to eat local and have a "Make Cornbread, Not War" bumpersticker on my minivan. Which is to say, I'm on the same page as most of these folks, but they still bug me. Maybe it's a kind of self-loathing, I don't know. Maybe because I still feel like my usual outsider self at the farmers' market even when surrounded by folks who think a lot like I do (except that pesky orthodox Christianity thing I've got going on), it's even more painful than being an outsider when I'm around people I clearly have nothing in common with.

Another strange thing about my city's farmers' market is that the shoppers are such a homogeneous crowd that it feels a little unreal (particularly since 98% of the shoppers are white, whereas the farmers' market is in the heart of a city that's pretty black and increasingly hispanic). It's too self-conscious, if you know what I mean. Everyone's a little too aware that we're having this experience of going to the farmer's market. It becomes a meta-experience. Since I'm painfully self-conscious anyway, one of the most uncomfortable experiences I can have is being self-conscious of how self-conscious everyone is.

So that's part of why I'm not crazy about the farmers' market. Add to that the fact that shy people who fumble with their wallets while other impatient customers pant behind them (the hot breath on their necks making the fumbling all the worse) and antisocial types who hyperventilate in crowds and have a hard time paying $3 a pound for tomatoes in August when Mr. Eddie next door is giving them away for free, probably should steer away from farmers' markets and other open air venues. Maybe they should plan on planting an even bigger garden next year and reduce their five-mile radius to a fifty-foot radius.

That's my plan anyway. I can grow vegetables more cheaply at home and miss the crowds entirely. Except, of course, I won't miss them at all.

Pajama-Making Mama

My first ever sewn garment. I've sewn a patchwork throw and curtains, but never something that was actually supposed to be worn by a human being. These pajama bottoms were the easiest thing in the world to make, taking about an hour from beginning to end. I'm actually contemplating making myself a pair of capris now. I think I might could do it.

Don't you think "Pajama-Making Mama" would make a great name for a blog?

Housewife Exam

107 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Superior Take the test!

This is what I did for my blog anniversary. I admit I fudged a couple of answers. For instance, I was asked if I smoked, drank or doped. Well, I don't smoke, and I don't dope, and I don't think the occasional glass of Cabernet should get me lumped in with the smokers and dopers. So I committed a sin of omission by not checking that particular box. My great-grandmother would have understood.

Happy Anniversary!

I can't seem to remember when my wedding anniversary is, but I know for a fact that today marks one year for this blog. It helps that all I had to do was check the archives (as opposed to digging around in my attic for a wedding announcement) to make sure when the exact date was. Maybe if my husband and I'd gotten married online (I'm sure people do that now), we'd do a better job of keeping our facts straight.

So here I am, with a year of blogging under my belt. I had all sorts of plans to write a moving, profound yet witty, perhaps profoundly witty entry about blogging and self-expression and community and sanity. However, I'm too whupped. Between chores and trying to keep Will entertained without actually having to entertain him, all followed by a trip to the pool, well, my well has run dry.

So this entry is being made just so I wouldn't miss the opportunity to note the day. If you're reading this, thanks for taking the time. If you're not reading this--well, I don't even get that. If you're reading this and we've never met, but still somehow it seems like we're friends, I say that's the beauty of this enterprise, isn't it? That's what I meant to write about today, about these online neighborhoods we're making. And how cool it is that so many women are writing about our everyday lives as if they mattered.

Which, of course, they do.

A Letter to Will's Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Mrs. B:

It is sweet that you would like to know a little bit about Will before kindergarten starts in two weeks. Your e-mails to that effect have been bubbly and cheerful, which makes me think you will be a fine kindergarten teacher indeed. It will be nice for Will to spend time with a bubbly, cheerful female, since his mother is not known for her effervescence (though much admired for her ability to bellow like a master drill sergeant).

Here are the main two things you need to know about Will: He does not eat and will not use public restrooms. You should not expend any energy trying to make him do either of these things. Given that you don't have the authority to award him extra Wii time for trying a bite of something he's sure he'll hate, there are really no incentives you can offer him to ingest anything other than a cup of water and maybe--maybe--a handful of goldfish.

I know this will be especially disappointing during those special lunches sprinkled throughout the school year at Our Fine School, the Mexican Fiesta, the Nigerian Feast, the Teddy Bear Tea Party. Come to think of it, though, none of the children eat during these lunches. For Jack's Nigerian Feast, I personally prepared an elegant dish of baked bananas in cream. Here's a hint to the next mom who tries this: slice the bananas into half-inch chunks. When left whole, the bananas, browned by baking, bear an unfortunate resemblance to--well, you can imagine.

But as no child touched any of the Nigerian food, nor the Mexican treats, nor the lovely scones prepared by that nice Amanda Parker later in the spring, I was not dismayed that my bananas went untouched. Really, some plan should be made to cart all those lunches down to the Food Bank after the kids go out for recess.

But I digress.

So Will won't eat, and he won't go. Once you accept these two seemingly carved in stone facts about him, you and he will get along fine.

You'll be glad to hear that he's not a problem child--at least not for adults other than his own loving parents. I've been continually shocked over the years to learn that in school, Will doesn't talk back, sass, naysay, resist, make rude and sometimes scatalogical remarks, ignore authority, or put his hands on his little hips and say, "Oh, yeah? Well, you can't make me, you stupid head!"

You might want to know that Will has already decided that kindergarten will be boring. Since he has no idea of what kindergarten will entail, this is a bogus assessment, but it's typical. He's a tough guy, jaded, hardened by years of suburban living and preschool.

Here's a secret: Will is a marshmallow that's been dipped in glue and rolled in gravel. It's all show, baby. You look at him wrong and it hurts his feelings, but he'd never in a million years admit it. He just kicks stuff, and then later you find him crying in his closet.

If you find yourself and Will at odds--say you've said something devastatingly cruel, like, "Will, you need to pick up that crayon you dropped under your desk,"--you can joke the bad feelings away. Bring up his baseball heroes, Derek Jeter, David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, and wonder if they ever accidentally wear their gloves on the wrong hand. This will make Will giggle. He'll say, "Yeah, and maybe sometimes they forget to wear their shoes!" And with that, the crisis is averted. You cannot go to this well too many times, trust me.

If you try to hug him, he'll squirm away. If you ask him a question about how he enjoyed his weekend or if he's looking forward to Thanksgiving, he'll say, "I don't even know how to answer that."

His love is not the obvious kind, but it is true. He is loyal to his friends. He loves to play, to run and roll around and swing from things. He doesn't hit or bite. Sometimes he remembers to say thank you. If he doesn't say it--well, he did, really. You just didn't hear him.

With best wishes for a wonderful year,

Will's mom

Menu Plan Monday

I love reading other people's lists, and I've really been enjoying reading menus that people are posting through Menu Plan Monday, so I've decided to join in. Here's what's on the table this week:

Monday: Gemelli with white beans, artichoke hearts and spinach

Tuesday: Sausage, tomatoes and rice, served with cornbread (a great, easy meal)

Wednesday: Spaghetti pie

Thursday: Leftover spaghetti pie

Friday: Black bean quesadillas

Saturday: Pizza (homemade for me and the man; Domino's for the kids)


Because everyone needs a fast meal, I'll share the Sausage and Rice recipe. You'll need:

8 oz. kielbasa-style sausage, pre-cooked (I usually get turkey sausage to cut down on fat)
15 oz. can diced tomatoes
2 cups cooked rice (brown rice if you've got the time)
1 onion
1-2 cloves garlic
olive oil

Because I prefer brown rice, a lot of times I'll cook it beforehand, say, in the morning while I'm puttering around, and then stir it in with the sausage and tomatoes to heat it up before serving. Otherwise, start cooking white rice as you're chopping everything up.

So: chop up your onion and garlic (whole onion if you're an onion lover; half if the kids and the man tend to pick out what they find to be excessive amounts of onion). Saute the onion until it's clear, then throw in the garlic and cook it for a minute or so. Next, slice your sausage ((I usually halve it lengthwise, then cut into 1/4" slices) and throw it in with the other stuff. Even though the sausage is cooked, I like to brown it a bit, just to get the skin a little bit crackly if at all possible.

Next, dump in the tomatoes, juice and all. Add a little salt, a little pepper to taste, and some oregano if you want to get fancy about it. Heat everything through. When the rice is done cooking, mix that in with the sausage and tomatoes. That's it! Dinner's done in fifteen minutes.

I usually serve this with broccoli. Cornbread is good, too (I get the Jiffy brand mix, which is now a startling fifty-nine cents, up from a quarter just a few years ago).

Back to School Shock

We've got two weeks til school starts.

I am in shock.

See, last week at this time, I had it in mind that there was a month until school started. This is because I am challenged by anything calling for a modicum of common sense and counting, which includes looking at a calendar and determining how many weeks left until it's time to send the boys packing.

Then on Thursday, I actually put my pointer finger on the page and jumped one week to the next, upon whence I realized I was off by a week. The fact is, summer is almost over.

Mind you, I'm not complaining.

And summer isn't really almost over. This is North Carolina. Summer will hang out for another two months, maybe two and a half. Heat-wise, we're entering the very heart of summer right now, with daily highs rarely dipping below ninety and often creeping up toward 99.

But psychologically speaking, summer is in its death throes. Two more weeks of lounging about (and not even that for Jack, who's in a camp this week and has to actually get up and dressed before 8:30). Two more weeks of the pool and long games of Wii baseball after dinner. Two more weeks of feeling guilty about not planning more educational, morally edifying, spiritually satisfying activities for my lovely children.

Two more weeks of boys arguing about who gets to push the inside elevator button.

Really, this summer hasn't been so bad. Oh, yeah, sure, being sick for ten days now (yep, still sick--now I'm thinking that I was sick with something else before I picked up the strep) hasn't been a picnic, and there've been a few patches where I put too much on my plate and felt pretty stressed, but here's the thing: no Big Summer Funk. Thought the Big Funk was happening two weeks ago, but turned out it was just prelude to the Long Virus. Major, major difference. I hate being sick, but I hate being funked out worse.

So I leave this summer with no hard feelings. And I head toward the fall with a pocket full of big plans. There's a book I have to revise, and that will be fun, having left off writing (other than this blog) since June 1st. There are Christmas presents and curtains to be made. There is a house to be attended to, a dog to take on long walks, a lunchtime knitting group I can attend once the boys are safely ensconced in the classroom.

Two weeks left. The marathon of summer days almost over.

If I can just make it through without having to buy another bottle of sunscreen, I'll consider this summer a complete success.