Visitors to the South Shore Farmers Market in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, last weekend got the chance to see Chicago-based artist Katie Schofield recreate a still-life painting by impressionist Paul Cezanne with... raw vegetables. The mosaic took nearly three hours to complete, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reports. The original plan was to toss the "art materials" into a wok for a stir-fry, but rain caused a change in plans.
I am typically not, by any means, a fryer. But once I saw that heap green tomatoes at the roadside market the other day, it became an inevitability: there would be fried green tomatoes.
I managed to keep the hassle of the whole ordeal to a minimum, with just a quick roll in cornmeal and a flip in the cast iron skillet. All it needed was a finish of coarse salt. It's a good thing frying is a pain and green tomatoes aren't easy to come by year-round, or this could become addictive.
I am not proud to admit that I have avoided fresh corn for years. I don't mean I wouldn't eat it. Au contraire. Nothing is lovelier than crisp, sweet, just-picked summer corn. It doesn't require one thing. I mean, I wouldn't pick it up at the market. I wouldn't get too close, certainly wouldn't touch it, and under no circumstances would I ever, ever, actually buy it.
It all goes back to a particularly traumatizing experience as a girl. I was shucking fresh corn for the first time. Enjoying the excitement of stripping off the husks, tugging at the silky strands on the inside. I had gone through maybe 2 or 3 ears, when, to my horror, I looked down to see that crawling in and among all of the glossy, pale-yellow kernels of corn on the ear I was working, were what looked like millions of little white maggoty-wormy-buggy things. Well that did it, my romance with shucking summer's bounty of sweet corn ended there. I didn't care what I was missing. As long as that was possible, I wanted none of it.
So here I am at the farmer's market, seeing the giant heap of corn, with endless possibilities swirling through my head (with chopped avocado and cherry tomatoes for a quick salad; cooked in coconut milk for a rich soup; tossed into a cast iron for sweet, crumbly cornbread.) Was I really ready, after 20 years, to face this demon? I wasn't sure. But, I at least felt secure enough to, with just two quick fingers, pick out 4 ears and toss them into a bag.
Last night, I decided I was ready. It was do or die. I kept the water running, so any unexpected guests in my corn could be quickly disposed of, and I had a large trash can right by me, so in case of panic, I could toss it all. Thankfully, there was nothing to be seen inside those hulls and beneath the silk but beautiful, fresh corn, which was so sweet that I couldn't help but pop a few handfuls of raw kernels into my mouth as I sliced it off the cob.
I was casually strolling through the farmer's market this past weekend, planning on picking up a nice selection of heirloom tomatoes. I was having my college roommate over for dinner, and a nice tomato salad just seemed like a good idea. It's a great market, and I expected a good selection.
What I did not expect, however, was this sign:
Finally! a Mr. Stripey of my very own! (Read how my search for Mr. Stripey began.) Of course I scooped him up immediately, along with a whole slew of others, inluding Cherokee Purple, Green Zebra, etc. They were so pretty in the colander, I almost didn't want to eat them.
(Almost.) But I thought a simple preparation would be best, allowing their inherently wonderful seasonableness to shine through. So a splash of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, fresh basil, mint, and parsley, finished with a grind of salt and pepper was all it took. Already I can feel summer (and the heirlooms) slipping away. What's that Don Henley song? My love for you will still be strong, Mr. Stripey, even after the boys of summer have gone.
I got the most extraordinary looking (and even better tasting) blackberries at the farmer's market. I was instantly brought back to being a girl, growing up in Mississippi. One summer day my best friend and I discovered wild blackberries growing in the woods at the end of our street. After that, we were there, deep in the bushes with jugs in hand, picking blackberries almost everyday. We would bring them home at the end of the day to our mothers, eyes wide anticipating what magical treat our mothers would create.
We quickly learned that my mother was no such magician. Her idea of how best to transform these berries into a treat that would excite 10 year-olds? Washed, in a bowl. Or, maybe with a sprinkling of Equal! (While I appreciate such a simple and health-conscious approach now, we were not excited by this offering.)
And so, the blackberries went straight to my friend's mother, who would make a cobbler.
I was up in Minneapolis visiting family this past weekend (more to come on that adventure), and we went to the farmer's market. It was amazing -- fried mini donuts, just-picked strawberries, balloon animals, and cinnamon rolls the size of a toddler head all under one roof? Count me in! See my photo gallery.
