Rose Garden's Last Hurrah

One side benefit of the farmers market is that it’s adjacent to the city rose garden, a multicolor, multilevel marvel with interior pathways that enable closer views of these fluttery flowers. All summer on market days I’ve admired the rose garden as I moseyed by with my peaches and blueberries. I imagine other market goers have as well. But whenever I explored interior pathways, I always had them to myself. Even people picnicking nearby seemed oblivious to this beautiful garden.

Now it’s October though and on the final farmers market day, I noticed a difference. As I approached the market, I was intentional about visiting the roses. Who knows when I’ll get to do this next? Probably not for seven or eight months.

Virgins and marrying aside, I think of Robert Herrick’s poem, which begins …

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

Other people apparently had the same idea, because I shared the labyrinthine paths with other folks. As I noted roses resembling butterflies and anemones, others also meandered, stopping to finger pink petals, pointing in amazement at roses that towered above them, bending to inhale a full yellow blossom or to snap photos of a low bush of balls resembling swirled cherry-vanilla ice cream. Even market goers who didn’t enter the lovely labyrinth commented that the roses seemed to be more beautiful today than they had been all summer. They slow-mo strolled by with bulging bags of apples and wide smiles on their faces.

Chilly October air froze my fingers into a fist in vain attempt to tuck hands under my jacket cuff. Farmers at the market jammed their hands deep into pockets and bounced in their booths to keep warm. Yet a young mom with bundled babe and big orange pumpkin in a stroller lolled on a bench to admire the roses.

The rose garden’s glorious last hurrah eased my sadness at saying goodbye to summer markets.

Taking Time to Taste

Taking time to smell the flowers is more of a spring and summer pleasure in the Midwest. In autumn, unless you like smelling mums (ugh), splendor in the ordinary involves taking time to taste the harvest. And it does take time. More time than bending over to stick my nose in a pink peony.

If tomatoes or beans are from my garden, I have taken time to plant and nurture seeds; water, feed and weed soil; tend and trim plants; and pick the produce. For vegetables purchased at farmers markets, a farmer has paid with his time. But in autumn comes the payoff ~ tasting. And aside from popping cherry tomatoes right from the vine into your mouth, tasting takes time, too. Well, the prep does. Blending flavors, experimenting with cooking techniques, and finally savoring ~ these are not for nights when you want a quick and convenient meal.

After many disappointing harvests, this year I was SO grateful for God’s bounty, I determined to be as faithful as possible with what He’d blessed us with. Okay, I didn’t pick or use some tomatoes before they got brown and mushy, but I did plan in advance how to make best use of almost everything from my own little patch and from farmers markets. It was fun, very satisfying, and delicious, but I have pretty much lived in my blue-and-white-checked apron for two months.

My first foray into gourmandise was ratatouille, which makes use of tomatoes, zucchini, onions, garlic, bell peppers, eggplant, basil, and parsley. Its stewlike consistency is soft on the palate, and the fact that all these flavors have stewed together for a while makes for a rich taste experience.

Next came cold tomato soup—gazpacho, which uses tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, celery, and either zucchini or cucumber. I made two batches, one with zucchini and one with cucumber. Since gazpacho is not cooked, the blended flavors pop with freshness.

I took a break from blending and made a few combining-type recipes. Think four-bean salad, roasted or grilled veggies, and zucchini and tomato bake—or Tian Provençal. Just plain beans and broccoli freshly picked and steamed were so tender and sweet, they didn’t even need butter or salt to be gourmet treats. And two big pots of my very veggie soup jam-packed with every green, red, orange, and yellow edible plant under the sun. Every veggie under the sun is of course an exaggeration, but that's what it felt like in the hour it took me to chop all those crisp, colorful crops. On the upside, all those flavors and health benefits were glorious.

Winding down now—even my apron is tired. My last bursts of energy for blended epicurean delights were tomato basil soup and butternut squash-Macintosh apple soup ~ oh, and applesauce with vanilla and cinnamon. Now that our tomatoes and beans are long gone and the final farmers market is tomorrow, I fondly remember this harvest season for my investments of time and the pleasure we had in savoring those meals. Our local grocery stores’ sales on frozen vegetables this week are timely, but I will sure miss that locavore taste. I suppose nothing keeps me from concocting ratatouille and gazpacho from store-bought produce, but my apron and I are ready for a rest from harvest season’s culinary adventures.

You know you’re not in France …

Vegetable gardening here in Illinois and visiting France have taught me to love marchés, or farmers markets. In both the U.S. and in France, fresh, local, heirloom, and artisanal flavors awaken the taste buds. And in France, farmers’ arrangements are an art form—a feast for the eyes. Less artistic, practical U.S. farmers generally just put little bins and pint and quart boxes on a table to display their produce. As I sling Provençal cabas, or market basket, over my shoulder and stride toward a new market, I’m eager for both freshness and artistry. Standing in the midway of the market, I glance up and down both lines of booths for the French signature: beauty. Here in the States, I’m often disappointed, as in our recent stop at a Michigan market.

Promising signs were pretty flower displays and a quiche vendor …

… and a chef creating both savory and sweet crêpes.

But then, you know you’re not in France when the market sells Yooper pasties and Amish cheese, especially with a tacky plastic cheese wedge on a car.

Some booths straddled the France/U.S. line, in my opinion. On one hand, sea salt caramels are ubiquitous along the Atlantic coast of France. On the other hand, chocolate covered bacon sounds right out of a Homer Simpson cartoon. And free copies of the New Testament? I have never seen this in France, though I’m sure it happens.

Regarding market baskets, well, again practicality reigns in this country, where most everyone nowadays brings reusable cloth bags to farmers markets. Compare the Michigan market’s single pole of baskets for sale with a French marché’s vibrant, tumbling sea of basket beauty.

Farmers markets

Marchés (Markets)

“Still savoring?” asked our B&B host to determine if he could clear our breakfast dishes or not. I liked his pleasure-oriented way of saying, “Can I take your plate?” This memory springs to mind, as I am still savoring France’s tastes and sights. See previous post, Tasty Terroir Treats, for food gourmandises (delicacies). For a visual feast, you can’t beat France’s marchés (markets)—and Monet’s Garden and the Petit Palais, but they deserve blog posts of their own.

If I go to a grocery store at home, I’m task-focused. I have a list of what I need; I gather the items, check out, go home—as quickly as possible. If I go to a farmers market at home or in France, I want to linger to enjoy the vibrant colors and artistic presentations of food and flowers. Even if I’m on a quest for something, like the best looking haricots verts (green beans) for the best price, or a foulard (scarf), or chèvre (goat cheese), I don’t like to hurry at a market. Being there is a pleasurable passe-temps (pastime). This includes many smiles at people’s cute dogs trotting by or peeking out of ladies’ purses.

We went to three farmers markets on this France trip. Here are some miscellaneous market photos from Fontenay-le-Comte, St. Martin-de-Re, and Paris’ Marché Bastille.