Picture me with my arms stretched out, my fingers in jazz-hands positioning, and gushing about lily pad perfect bibb lettuce, three feet tall scallion stalks and a fresh loaf of spelt bread. It’s farmers’ market season, boys, girls and those who identify otherwise.
It’s ON.
It’s so on that I actually openly gush to the vendors. When I’m stammering half out loud, half to my market friend westcoast and, and well, if there three halves, half in my head, about how I’m just so very excited to be outside, browsing fresh produce and even fresher mozzarella cheese. How is it possible that the creamy white pillows resting in water can be called the same name as the shredded, plastic bag dwelling yellow cheese? Tell me, because fucks if I know. Or the cheese producer that I asked as I closed my eyes and let his version of motz float down my throat.
My first visit to the Silver Spring market yielded my first go at ramps. They are part of the onion family, look more like scallions than regular onions, but are tiny and leafy and expensive. Of course westcoast and I bought three bundles. After the market he came over and we scrambled together sauteed ramps in my newly purchased European-style butter, and scrambled in farm fresh eggs and feta. And I think chives too. I don’t know. After my high from the market my hangover took over and the details of the cooking are sketchy.
But I still had a bundle of ramps left a week later, and with wilting on its way, I had to act quick…
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