Portland, you are blessed. At the Montavilla Farmers’ Market I found strawberries (Puget Crimson and Puget Summer) as good as the best variety I’ve ever tasted back East (Earliglow) — only darker, and bigger.
Lunch at Larkspur Landing, CA. A beautiful farmers’ market next to a great redwood-tree sculpture playground and fine bookseller, Diesel. The Farmer’s Wife made me a plate of local greens, a fried egg, fennel sausage with local meat, jicama, and avocado.
Looking out the plane window, westbound to SF from NYC, I am struck by my limited understanding of, and vocabulary for, the landscape I see. In Nebraska, what are those large, perfect circles in shades of brown and green, some with shaded pie-shapes?
I’ve been eating savory yogurt. Thick, whole-milk yogurt — never skim or low-fat — with lots of flavor –maybe walnuts, pine nuts, za’atar, olive oil, salt, pepper, cayenne, cinnamon, and whatever fruit or vegetables I have around, including soft, brown griddled onions.
In my twenties, I found myself living in London, England, and sorely homesick for an inimitable and tactile experience of home. What I missed most was a weekly visit to a busy farmers’ market, brimming with fresh, seasonal produce sold by …