After a stop at the Norwich Bookstore and Nana’s apartment, we went to the Hanover farmers’ market, on the Dartmouth green. I’d had some pent-up desire for this kind of variety and plenty, and I went a little wild. Jack and I ate half of the bunch of salmon colored carrots right away.
Then, after craning my neck to assess the competition, I settled on Fable Farm for my armfuls of kale, lettuce, and motley radishes.
Then there was raw-milk cheese from Piermont, New Hampshire to sample. I bought some of the manchego style “Manch-vegas.” (Did it have that name because it was so over-the-top-flashy-flavorful? It had to be followed by a full-bodied red.)
Strawberries! Next weekend Cedar Circle Farm will have their annual strawberry festival, but we had to stock up before then.
There were sausages, pasture-raised chickens, eggs, breads and baked things of all sorts, fresh-squeezed lemonade, popcorn popped in an aluminum vat the size of a bathtub:
And asparagus.
I got a big bunch. The vendor suggested grilling them, which we did later. I usually roast them, and I have to say, I’m going to stick with roasting. They were fine grilled, but they got a bit black. It’s easier to control the cooking when they’re on a pan in the oven, rolling around in olive oil rather than errant flames.
Around here, it almost goes without saying that the produce, poultry, meat, fruit, and fungi are raised without the help of synthetic chemicals. Here is a fiercely proud bastion of organics where the suggestion of doubt would be taken as an affront to the dignity of the farmer and her land. The collective identity of this community, which is scattered across mountains and back roads, is strong in spite of, or because of, the old New England ethos of pioneering individualism and eccentricity that is summed up on New Hampshire’s license plates: “Live Free or Die.”
Jack, exercising his right to sit down wherever he wants to.
Later on, for dinner, we grilled sausages and the asparagus, sautéed the kale with some crushed garlic, sliced the walnut ficelle, and ate outside while the sun went down.
Read Full Post »
The Roving Locavore 