This morning I made it out to the farmer's market for the first time in ages. Having just finished "Animal Vegetable Miracle," Barbara Kingsolver's story about eating locally, I feel all the more dedicated to eating like the hippie I really am. My tradition is to bike to the market, and since I haven't touched my bike much lately, feeling the wind through my hair was rather intoxicating in itself.
I bought tart, juicy oranges; beautiful new potatoes; two weirdly pale but sure-to-be-delicious pomegranates; white and purple onions; and, naturally, a clove of garlic. I resisted apples, carrots, broccoli, and much more. I already dug into an orange as a snack, and it's taking all my willpower not to fry up some garlic and cook some potatoes. For a person of Irish ancestry I'm averse to potatoes, those mealy, colorless, flavorless things my mom likes to make. But who can resist waxy, tiny potatoes with lots of garlic, butter and some sort of herb? I can't. They are so different from those months-old bricks you buy at the grocery store.
My cousin is coming to stay for a few days starting on Wednesday, so I figured I needed to stock up. I plan to wow him with fresh-cooked meals based on local produce, supplemented with excellent restaurant ones.
Spoiled person I am, there is a second farmer's market on Thursday, just a few blocks from my work. I'm sure I will augment my stash then. I can already tell, I will want more potatoes.
Update: Just made the most delicious garlicky cheesy potatoes. Ah, I am slowly getting my cooking mojo back...this feels (and tastes) good.
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