So I just got back from the last Zionsville Farmers Market, a tradition I relish. I look forward each Spring and count the Saturdays down in May until that first weekend in June arrives and while I know, realistically, there won’t be a huge spread of freshness to choose from, it doesn’t matter. The ritual of getting up early on a Saturday morning, grabbing a cup of coffee and heading out, sometimes on my Elektra bike, the cooooooolest thing on two wheels!
Off I go on my crisp Saturday morning, out the court, out of the neighborhood, down the road to the village, where I navigate the narrow shady avenues until I reach my destination, near the Dairy Queen of course. I dismount with my coffee enjoying every sip and sight my eyes encompass. There in front of me are little tents, different shapes, sizes and colors, with the vendors ready, not only to sell their fresh produce, but tell you a little bit about the product, their farms, and what will be coming in the seasons ahead.
Around I go to the little stalls. I have my methodology. Reconnaissance first. I always travel once around the market to see who has the best corn (sweet), tomatoes (heirloom), spring onions and garlic, berries (how I love the berries), the melon man (who always has a line wrapped around the lot) — he services everyone, one at a time with a smile and chat as he dispenses his prized sweet, juicy, orbs. There are baked goods galore, a honey man, somebody selling Mouse Oil (?), and pasta. Maybe it will be twice around today…
My partner in crime is my mom. Saturday mornings have become a ritual for us. Mom and Dad have lived in Zionsville for some time. I am a newbie, having only moved to this side of town within the last 4 years. I’ve never felt more at home and it didn’t take me very long to understand what a special place this was. It’s a secret I’m not too sure I want to share with “outsiders” because part of the character of Zionsville is its size, truly a small, charming village. I’m happy for you to visit, but …
Back to the market. I have a weekly budget. I’ve eyed the produce I want, mentally calculating to maximize my “take” with the cash I have. Now it’s time to move in and begin purchasing. I’d like to say that I remember every week to bring my Farmers Market bag. But sometimes I forget. I am really not a morning person. I just make myself on Saturdays during the season because what awaits me motivates me. Otherwise, those closest to me know not to even bother talking to me until I’ve had 2 cups of coffee and my morning writing is complete.
But I am in rare form now and I’m determined to get really choice product. You see you have to go early if you want to make sure, for instance, that the pasta lady doesn’t run out her exceptional basil pasta. The thought of it makes me swoon. I make a killer fresh tomato sauce in the summer time that I toss her basil pasta in and, well, there are no words. Anyway, I am determined to secure my produce for the week.
I have become, in the last few years, an advocate of buying local and as organic as possible, a locavore. Local because I want to support the farming community and I know where my produce has come from (just up the road). I know how far it’s traveled and I know how fresh it really is. Secondly, the more I cook the more I realize that organic really does taste better. It’s better for you and better for the environment.
Juggling bags, squeezing produce, justifying the unexpected, I maneuver around the market until I’m out of cash. I am happy. And I can’t wait to get it home and eat it. Mom and I finish our coffees, hug, and I’m off. I may have to peddle a little harder as there is now additional weight to push. No matter, it’s good for my heart.
Back home, I carefully wash my prizes and decide how to store them. Pasta, unless I plan to cook it that night, goes into the freezer. I store them in individual twists so that no matter the head count, I can pull exactly the right amount out of the freezer each time. (like those individually packaged boneless, skinless chicken breasts — brilliant idea and how come no one thought of it sooner?) Now I plot my use of the produce — which recipes I will make and when. Those berries weigh heavy on my mind. I am a pie baker and when the blackberries are fresh and in season it’s like I’m in heat. I can not be reasoned with. I must bake pie.
Now the market serves a greater purpose than just my own appetite. Like the components of a quilt coming together to create a beautiful and functional garment, the market is one of Zionvilles’ charms that adds to its character and is very much a part of many lives here. The market is booming with people not only purchasing, but socializing. Bringing the family pet is another common sight at the market. You’d think there’d be mayhem with so many animals. But there’s not. I’ve never witnessed a single dog dispute.
I prepare myself in September for the end. The last Saturday. I purchase, as much as possible, that which will freeze. This year I am going to attempt canning. I am a little intimidated. I sat thru a lecture on botulism. But I’ve been assured by some women older and wiser than I, who have been canning for years, that if I start with fairly acidic stuff I ought to be okay…
I will miss the market immediately. Saturday mornings become an adjustment. I’ll get used to it by the end of October. By then I’m plotting my Thanksgiving strategy. The holidays quickly follow and keep me preoccupied. But when I’m alone with my thoughts in the cold winter months and I see those hot house tomatoes in the store I’m both wistful and irritated. Seed catalogs do little to soothe my restlessness. By March I’m pensive. By April anxious. And by May, well remember I referenced being in heat earlier…