Don't Move the Farm Market!

When I returned to this lovely little corner of the Upper Midwest, there was only one local farm market, and it was held in a parking lot along the river. Ducks splashed nearby and geese honked overhead. It was a quiet corner near a busy intersection and if it was not as vibrant as the markets of Europe or the larger college towns that I love so much, it was still a nice little market with a strong sense of place.


Then the mayor had this not-so-bright idea to move it an empty lot off the beaten path. It bombed. A few years later, it moved again, this time to a designated spot with a silly, narrow "marketplace" which was really just a metal awning on posts. In time, the market grew again, but then one year the health department swooped in and closed the stall with the jams and the one with the pickles, and then one by one the growers died or retired or stopped coming to town.


About that time another market started up in another part of town along the bay and over a three-year period, that market grew until it became a small but vibrant venue for local growers, crafters and our small CSA effort.


But it was in a city park and this year, the city decided to charge anyone who wants to use the park for anything, more or less.


A generous businessman whose antique mall provided space for a winter farm market, offered an outdoor site for summer, but a behemoth of a building blocks the summer breeze off the bay.


I still go, of course, and I appreciate the alternate location. What if we had a market and there was no place to put it?


But I find I am cranky about this, and I find the change is hard to adjust too. I go, I chat with the vendors and I enjoy exploring the contents of my CSA box, but I want the bay back.


Maybe I am getting too old for changes like this.

Red Snapper with Citrus Sauce: Grill, Baby, Grill

Spring in Wisconsin began in March this year, and the lilacs and flowering crab have already come and gone. The bridal wreath, which usually graces our lawn and the park across the street on the anniversary of D-Day, is falling petal by petal like so many white crosses on the green meadows of Normandy.

We bravely and confidently put our flowers and herbs out in early May and fired up the Weber grill weeks ago.

It took years, but I have come to understand the mystique of the grill (how do men figure this out first?). It's fire, primordial and even magical, a whiff of pungent aroma from applewood chips tossed on the coals.

It took three trips to the fish market this morning to buy red snapper. My husband tried on his 7 a.m. bagel run and I tried again at 8:45 a.m. on my way to the first outdoor farm market of the season.

"The truck isn't here yet," said the bespectacled woman behind the counter (who really knows her customer service). "But I'm getting red snapper."

Finally at 10:30 I nabbed a pound of it, just enough for two.

Late in the afternoon, with a crispy and mineral-y bottle of Alsatian Riesling well underway, I washed and dried the fish and rubbed it with Cyprus salt flakes and pepper. While my husband prepped the grill, I baked potatoes, roasted red peppers, and prepared the sauce: One tablespoon honey mustard, three tablespoons of honey, three tablespoons lemon juice, one tablespoon lime juice and two chopped-up slices each of lime and tangerine. I tasted the sauce adding a bit more of this and a bit more of that.

I carmelised a small, sweet onion in a dash of olive oil and tossed in the sauce, reducing it and then glazing the grilled fish before serving. The recipe was inspired by this one.

Tender. Sweet. Even a little nutty. And tangy from the sauce. We'll do it again, unless red snapper becomes a casualty of this heinous tragedy in the gulf.

Because of our warm spring, my CSA box was full today, with lettuce, kale, radishes, rhubarb and all manner of herbs. I bought organic eggs, too, but passed on the whitefish. Maybe next time.

Simple Easy Meals; Nostalgia for Simple, Easy Times

I know. I know. I said I was going to find more time to cook.

I have been puttering in the kitchen a bit, but what I've been preparing is fast and mundane and not blog-worthy: Broccoli-cauliflower salads, tossed salads with whatever is on hand, roasted chicken with rice.

I sneaked home for lunch the other day and tossed some lettuce in a bowl, along with some thin slices of red onion, a doze grapes and a few mandarin orange segments.

Simple. Good. But maybe not blog worthy.

I have been spending a lot of time online, dreaming. Not only have I been yearning for travel, but I've been looking back to other times, simpler times. It seems to me that there are many, many signs that we are headed in the wrong direction on many levels. Way to much hatred and bitterness than is healthy for a country.

I've come to the conclusion that growing when I did was a good thing. From the comments I've read online, it seems a lot of us feel that way.

The photo was taken at the Village St. Paul in Paris. It was taken in spring and it looks springy.

My Kitchen Rituals: Freshly Grated Anything

I am a pushover for freshly snipped herbs and freshly grated cheese or onion or nutmeg on whatever I am preparing.

There is a luxury to such things. And they are simple indulgences.

I was shopping in Cahors at a wonderful domicile shop called Choses et Autres, located at 77 Boulevard Leon Gambetta where I found this darling little dish-cum-grater called a rapé tout.

It does indeed grate just about everything, from onion to cheese to carrots.

When I use it, my kitchen is transported to the sunny southwest of France.

And that's a real luxury.

Joyeuses Pâques

Peace to you in this season of renewal and light.

The Color of Saffron: Chicken-and-Apricot Tagine

I realize I am fortunate to have the life I have: a sound marriage, a Victorian house on a hill, a garden, a challenging job, a still-healthy mother who is 86, good friends and fond memories. Especially in rocky times such as these.

But for the purposes of this blog, I sometimes wish my life were a bit less pedestrian. What if I lived in Morocco? Wintered in Antibes? Summered in the Hebrides? What if the food I prepared in my little kitchen were inspired by something other than the thought "I think it might be fun to make a tagine today."

Two weeks ago, I had that thought. You can prepare a tagine in many vessels. But I wanted a real one. I imagined my kitchen redolent with the spices of Northern Africa while meat and vegetables or dried fruit simmered in a clay pot with a tee-pee-like cover.

And so today that was how it was. 

Usually around Easter my appetite demands spicier foods. This tagine recipe calls for turmeric and cinnamon and paprika, with saffron for a shot of brilliant color.

Saffron was not something I grew up with: Instead, I discovered it in a rice mix from a short-lived gourmet store in my hometown when I was in college (the first time, before my "gap" years). Only when I brought the mix home did my father tell me he always kept saffron on hand, but used it sparingly. 

Saffron, derived from the crocus, seems like the perfect spice for spring. It supposedly has great medicinal properties, is thought to be cancer suppressing, and - they say - can be an antidepressant.

It is grown in the Mediterranean, including in parts of the Quercy, in the southwest of France, and I have seen it for sale there, and in the markets. 

My tagine, which I slow cooked in my clay vessel, was passable for a first attempt. The chicken was tender, but not as moist as I expected, while the apricots melted in my mouth. I agree with some of the reviewers that the spices and garlic should be stepped up. I did not use cilantro this round, but I will try it again. 

Spring Night in Paris

Renting an apartment at the foot of the Eiffel Tower - or just about anywhere near a famous attraction in Paris - puts a carnival outside your window.

You can join in the revelry or simply watch the passing parade from your balcony.

On this particular spring night, we were jet lagged and chose the latter approach to savoring Paris at night.

We nibbled on crudités and sipped wine from Provence keeping the windows open to allow the street sound to waft up to our postage-stamp-sized living room.

For me - and I am glad my husband agrees - part of travel is not always being on the go but actually slowing down a bit.

Slow travel? Very slow travel.

I love the color contrasts and the angle of this photo.

Paris, May 2007