the farmer's market

Every Wednesday morning, I go to the farmer’s market. Usually I go before work, but sometimes I’ll start working early and take a mid-morning walk instead. I take my compost out of the freezer, fill my grocery tote with mesh produce bags, and make sure I have at least $10 in cash, just in case. I walk six blocks south, at a leisurely pace if it’s warm, a brisker pace if it’s cold (or if I’m running late).

I started going to the farmer’s market regularly during the pandemic. Before that, I was never organized enough to get to the market on Wednesday mornings, and if I did, it meant I needed to carry my groceries to the office, store them there, and remember to bring them home at the end of the day. It didn’t seem worth the effort back then. Once the pandemic hit, the farmer’s market was felt like the safest way to grocery shop. I was outdoors, in a mask, and there were chalk numbers drawn by each stall so we could wait in a socially distanced line to get our vegetables. The numbers are gone now, but I still go to the market every week if I can.

The compost collection is at the east end of the plaza, so when I enter from the west end I walk by all the stalls and look at what they’re selling. I can price shop and meal plan before making my first purchase. After I shake out my compost, my first stop is the fish stand. If I don’t have plans on Wednesday night, I am buying tuna so I can make poke for dinner. After three years I’ve finally figured out exactly how much I need for one person and the pieces I like best. The fish man knows me and my habits well now; he will cut me a small piece from the larger ones. If I don’t have too many dinner plans that week, I’ll buy scallops, too. Both are fresh enough to be eaten raw, though I usually end up searing the scallops.

If I need eggs, my next stop is the stall two tents down, selling pickles, cheese, smoked meats, and of course, eggs. The man here has a kind smile, and even on the weeks I don’t need anything, he waves at me when I walk by. I make sure I have cash when I need eggs; there’s no credit card machine here.

Sometimes I’ll go by the microgreens tent. I like buying the micro wasabi for my poke bowl, and the pea shoots to add in just about anything. Occasionally I’ll buy something different, but I’m a creature of habit. Same goes for the mushroom stall, which only appeared last year. I’m always tempted to buy the oyster mushrooms, but I need to remember to cook them, too. Temptation wins about 25% of the time. There are so many beautiful varieties, but I’m still learning what to do with all of them.

There are a few stalls with baked goods, but the one I like has a cranberry ginger scone, with chunks of candied ginger hidden inside. Sometimes I will buy one to munch on as I go on to peruse the produce stalls. The produce changes year round, but I know it’s spring when new tents start appearing at our market; it means they have something to sell besides root vegetables and winter squash.

For the last month, there has been an abundance of spring produce. Long stalks of purplish spring garlic, little bunches of ramps, bundles of asparagus, shocking pink and mild green rhubarb. I’ve made a version of Heidi Swanson’s tortellini salad, boiling my asparagus and snap peas in the last two minutes of the tortellini cooking to use just one pot. I mix pesto into arugula, dice up a fourth of an avocado and slice the spring garlic, and add the tortellini and cooked veggies. My favorite is mushroom tortellini from the Italian grocery on the Upper East Side; the earthy filling contrasts so well with the bright greens.

I bought rhubarb twice; the first batch went into a crispy topped rhubarb cake, the second into the rhubarb upside down cake from Smitten Kitchen. I used the bright pink pieces for that one; it makes it so much prettier. Last week, one of the new stalls had tiny zucchinis and summer squash. I’m going to make a fresh salad out of them, peeling each into thin, long strips dressed with olive oil, herbs and cheese.

I find myself eagerly awaiting summer now, when the stalls overflow with nightshades and summer squashes and stone fruit. I’ll buy the perfect peach or a bulging heirloom tomato, go by the cheese shop for burrata, and have a perfect dinner, dressing both in aged balsamic, olive oil, salt, and pepper. And then it will be fall again, with an abundance of apples, and I’ll know it’s getting cold because the first tent will have its percolator full of steaming apple cider. Whatever the season, I will be there.