(early September 2023)
(Listen to the prelude.)
The day after our trek out to Heartland Farm, the Frau and I went out to the North Side Farmers Market on yet another overcast day. It and the Monona Farmers Market, which we visit sometimes as well, don't have the spectacle or variety of the Dane County Farmers Market, but they do have the virtue of being less crowded. It's more easy going so I don't feel rushed and I never get that Orwellian feeling that there are people behind me surreptitiously looking over my shoulder at the same bunch of arugula that I am eyeing up.
The fall harvest season is in full swing and the stands were overflowing with nature’s bounty. I am not sure how many vendors grow in a greenhouse but I suspect it's few to none. These vegetables are genuinely seasonal, I'd bet.
It is prime eatin’ time! I know that with California, Florida, cargo planes, and whatnot, my supermarket will always have fresh produce available. But I still love the notion that I am eating something that popped out of the ground ripe not too long ago and was grown by, if not exactly a neighbor, then by someone who at least lives in the same county I do. And that the vegetables weren't grown and picked in some kind of Harvest of Shame scenario.
While not everyone at the stands at the farmers markets are farmers, you do run into one occasionally. Look at their hands. Are they calloused? Or all delicate like mine from typing and mousing for a living? There is something rather neat about buying food from the person who produced it, who got their hands dirty from digging in the earth or from delivering a calf. I realize that cities have throughout history depended on rural areas to feed them (and rural areas on cities to buy their food) but there's just something more genuine and fulfilling about buying tomatoes at the farmers market from a farm 10 miles away than ones grown in California or Peru or wherever the ones at the supermarket are from. Plus, the local ones are actually ripe, more flavorful, and pesticide-free.
While harvest festivals these days are more about local farmers having a good crop and being able to stave off creditors instead of a town celebrating that it won't starve over the winter, I still love them. For me, they are, amongst other things, a reminder that food doesn't just magically appear on the supermarket shelf.
Now, aren't these colors are just wonderful?
I think those little things in the husks are ground cherries. Never having had them, I was intrigued.
Look at those lovely flowers!
It’s scenes like these that make me wish I had a green thumb. Even more satisfying than buying chilies from the farmer who grew them is harvesting ones you grow yourself.
In addition to all of the colors, there were the smells, including some mighty fine aromas coming from this stand selling Afghani food.
I bought a couple of those samosa-like stuffed pastry thingies. They were delicious!
The allure and (some of the) aroma of New Orleans drew me to this stand.
Rue Bourre is a restaurant in-progress owned, I believe, by a couple from Louisiana. It is to open on the east side not too far from us and not far off the path from Acewood Park so it could become a post-hike lunch location. In the meantime, they’re at the farmers market with warm beignets and chicory coffee along with containers of frozen gumbo and jambalaya. I like gumbo. I like jambalaya. And so I brought some of each home with me. That gumbo file on my spice rack isn't going to use itself, after all.
I’ve had various preparations of gumbo over the years. Some were soup-like with a thin broth meaning little to no roux and I was simply incredulous at bowls of these gumbos. I have always been told that, when it comes to Cajun cooking, “First you start with a roux.” (I am not qualified to engage in a debate about the role of okra in making a gumbo a gumbo. However, I was once told by a resident of Houma, Louisiana with a very pronounced Cajun accent giving him a voice of authority that a gumbo with no okra is not gumbo.)
Others had an abundance of roux and were thick.
Rue Bourre splits the difference. The broth has clearly consummated its relationship with the roux but it isn’t stew-like. And it tastes positively toothsome! You’ve got those tasty Maillard reactions from the roux, porcine andouille goodness, the Holy Trinity, thyme, bay – this is great gumbo.
While I enjoyed the jambalaya, it tasted odd to me because it had no tomato and I am used to jambalaya having tomato in it. That acidic fruitiness cuts the starchy-grainy onslaught of the rice in a pleasing way. Good but not great.
I also bought some corn and cooked it the next day on the grill along with some fish.
I love grilled corn! While I may not eat particularly seasonally, I look forward to indulging in fresh sweet corn every August.
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A few days later, my Frau went up north to attend a wedding so it was just me and the cats. Our eldest, Grabby (a.k.a. – Marilyn) wasn’t feeling well. She was diagnosed with intestinal issues back in 2020, if memory serves. Likely lymphoma, according to the vet. After the diagnosis, she was put on steroids and had been doing well. Occasionally, she’d have a bad couple of days but then whatever it was would pass before long and she’d be back to eating twice her weight in food every day and more spry than most 10 year-old cats, much less ones her age, 16-17.
I kept an eye on Grabby and gave Piper extra treats. Grabby was accustomed to sitting on my Frau’s lap and sleeping on her hip at night. With the usual relaxation spots gone, I got some extra lap time with her which was really nice because I was worried about her. Would she get better? Had her time come?
One morning I drove out to Phil's Woods, a county natural area west of Madison, to take a hike. It’s nestled in the hills dotted with farms that mark the beginning of the Driftless Area.
The Phil in the name refers to Philip LaFollette, son of "Fighting Bob" La Follette. The progressive firebrand represented Wisconsin in Congress as a Representative and a Senator as well as being our governor. His son followed in his footsteps as Phil served as governor of our fair state for three terms. After his death, his widow donated the land.
The county parks website says the plot was too small to be a state park. So, while it wouldn’t be a long walk, it would provide some beautiful scenery. I hit the path.
The trail was hilly but nothing too steep.
At one point, the trail brought me to a corn field and skirted it along one side.
As I continued, I came to another corn field just as the sun had risen above the tree line. It was simply gorgeous out. A blue sky filled with puffy clouds looked down as a layer of gold settled on the trees.
There was a bench along the trail here looking north towards the bluffs of Baraboo some 15 or so miles in the distance. However, they were not visible owing to the tree canopies. I guess a return trip in the fall or next spring is in order.
All too soon, my short hike was over. It was mid-morning and I drove the backroads home to enjoy the scenery and slower pace.
When I walked in the door, I didn’t see either of the cats and so I sought out Grabby to check in and found her lying on a bed. She was listless and I noticed that her food dish, normally licked clean, didn't appear to have been touched. Since she’d been this way for 2 or 3 days, I decided to bring her to the vet to see what was up.
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Bonus photo. Here’s a picture of the hazy sky from last month. Not only was the sun dimmed by all that smoke from Canada, the air smelled of it too. It brought back that apocalyptic feeling from a few years back during lockdown when it seemed like we were doomed to feel nature's wrath.
