Another glorious Sunday morning at the Farmers Markets in Vancouver. It was a quick trip this time, and I’d already had breakfast (french toast and bacon), so no Métis Special for me today (that’s a grilled buffalo-sausage on a bun with corn relish and grilled onions with some cinnamon-sugared bannock for dessert). Sigh, I love good food so much.
I headed straight for the sourdough loaf (the starter grew up in the Napa Valley, so it’s just like San Francisco sourdough, which is utterly scrumptious). Next stop, heirloom tomatoes and basil. On a whim, I purchased an heirloom melon, which the vendor promised would be delicious (he did not lie). There was a duet playing Celtic music in the center aisle. I wandered the stalls to the sounds of singing accompanied by bodhran or guitar or fiddle or the stamping of feet. Were I not in a civilized neighbourhood, I might have busted out in a jig. Had I been with my sisters, it likely would have happened anyway.
At one stall, I discovered some pretty crabapples in a box marked “samples,” so I snagged myself one and bit into it. I remember the hard green cherry-sized fruits that hung so temptingly close from our crabapple tree by the forbidden creek. It was planted in a low section of our yard that sometimes flooded during thunderstorms. As a result, the grass was moist and lush and a vibrant deep green. Crawdad holes poked up through the ground here and there, like tiny chimeys made of dabbled mud. If I was barefoot, they’d squish suddenly under my toes and make me shudder. It was important to watch where you were going in my yard. I always picked the fruit too soon, though, and became a sourpuss.
This crabapple was different. It was big, almost golf-ball sized, with skin partly green and partly rosy. The flesh was crisp and tart, but not sour. Altogether not a bad experience. Now that I think of it, I could have roasted them with the pork tenderloin in my freezer. Ah, well. Next time maybe. I decided to add some potatoes, bell peppers, and carrots to my bag. I tried some local canned tuna, which was really quite delicious, but at $5 a can, I just couldn’t do it. I’m completely in favour of supporting local growers and meat vendors, but sometimes it’s just too pricey for my wallet. Green onions for $2.50 when I can pay 89¢ at the produce store up the street? No thanks. And the lovely eggs from those happy chickens? About $3 more than “inhumane” eggs. I hope someday the extra few bucks won’t matter to me.
Altogether, it was a good haul, and Ginger Man and I had a light vegetarian lunch of walnut-basil pesto, sliced tomato, and cheese on sourdough toast with scoops of sweet melon. So fresh! Such a delight to eat. Plus, I finally got a chance to use my melon baller. 8)
We have a tiny farmers market that just started up in town and it’s way to expensive for the likes of me. The yuppies probably love it, but I cannot afford to pay $5 for a small “artisan” loaf or $6 for a a trio of organic leeks!
It’s always a trade-off. Some people blow their fun money on movies or beer. I buy heirloom tomatoes. Lucky for me, Ginger Man will share his movies and beer if I share my tomatoes. Quid pro quo. 8)
Ya’ know, sometimes I forget what powerful Karma we possess. I just “Stumbled Upon” my own baby sister’s lovely blog! Oh, Kitty, you’re so fine! Love you. (and, yes, I would have danced a jig)