Going Local - CSA Glory

It's been two months since I've posted - I know.  I'm sorry.  I have a list of excuses, none of which are interesting or justifiable.  But I'd like to think that merely having a list is sufficient justification.

Stock photo because I've consumed too much
of my CSA for a photo do to the quantity justice.

As spring transitions into summer, one of my favorite things is the wealth of produce variety that arises in the weekly market.  Piles of potatoes morph into stockpiles of strawberries.  First asparagus, then blueberries and peas, and the next thing you know squash is long gone and you get to enjoy colorful meals yet again.  So long, beta carotene; I'll see you in the fall.

I love the new produce in the spring.  It's what incentivized me to get out of bed and to the market last year.  This year, I can proudly say that, motivated largely by sloth, I have joined a CSA.  The idea of supporting local farmers is something I've begun to feel quite strongly about.  Not only are you helping your community, you're cutting down on your own carbon footprint by not buying strawberries from Chile in December.  I like being able to go see where my food is grown, or in some cases, where my cows and pigs pasture.  Why buy something that's traveled thousands of miles, was picked before it was ripe so it could ripen on a plane, as opposed to on the vine where that process should be happening?  It just makes less sense to me.  I'd rather pay the premium to help my local farmers and get guaranteed fresh, chemical free produce, and forgo a few meals out or a new pair of shoes.

I have been a member of the Genuine Food meat CSA since April.  Vegetarians, I know you're disappointed in me.  But you know what?  I can't eat seitan, so get off my back.  Once a month, I get 10lbs of pork and beef products, for an average of $7/lb.  $7/lb, mind you, is a steal compared to what the equivalent of organic meat from Whole Foods would cost you.  And, again, I've seen the cows.  They chill in a pasture and have a pretty awesome life.  It's a local farmer, and the cost of transporting the meat to Baltimore is far less than a grass fed cow coming to me from Argentina.  What's not to love?

My veggie CSA also started last week.  After much (some) research, I settled on One Straw Farm.  I had first heard of them back in the fall of 2011 when I went to see a screening of Cafeteria Man, and they were a member of the panel discussion that followed the film.  Charm City Cook always tweets/blogs/instagrams her love for One Straw Farm, and various friends and colleagues had only good things to say.  So from now until November, I'll enjoy 8 shares of local, organic goodness that I pick up weekly at Mill Valley General on 28th and Sisson.

So you're new to Bmore.  You should at least consider signing up for a CSA.  You're supporting your local farmers, keeping money in the community, helping the environment, and putting organic food in your system.  Everyone wins.

For a list of other CSAs in the area, please go here.

So You're a Glutard: Sweet 27

Slightly over a year ago, I was diagnosed with a gluten intolerance.  I tearfully bid goodbye to cakes, pasta, pretzels, pizza and all other deliciously wheaty treats.  I feel lucky to not have full blown Celiac's disease, but it doesn't lessen the general annoyance of the gluten-free lifestyle.  As a result, I cook for myself far more often than I go out to eat.  Salads get tedious, and you just never known when a soup is thickened with flour or your bento box is doused in soy sauce instead of  tamari.  Twitter has been helpful, with various folks shooting their gluten free finds in my direction.  Baltimore, though, is still woefully behind for those of us living the gluten-free lifestyle.  I envy friends in New York and San Francisco with hoards of rice or corn-based options on every corner, and tell myself that it's only a matter of time until Baltimore joins their ranks.  It's not to say Baltimore isn't trying - Brick Oven Pizza in Fells Point offers a pretty solid gluten-free thin crust pizza, and Woodberry Kitchen has an entire gluten-free menu and always bring me a gluten-free snack when everyone else orders the bakery tray.  Artifact Coffee gave me a gluten-free scone once, and I'll never forget how exciting it was to enjoy a flaky, buttery baked good just like everybody else.

Free Seafood

Every week at the Farmer’s Market, the Seafood Man stands proudly with his coolers full of the week’s catch, as he should, knowing fully well that he and the Mushroom Ladies have the hottest, priciest commodities at the market.  I stare at him longingly as I fork over $1 for a pound of kale and another $1 for two eggplants from other, more affordable vendors.  This is my price range at the market.  Sometimes I’ll splurge on berries or peaches, but generally I have a $3-per-item limit for myself, and seafood just doesn’t fit into my budget.  It kills me, a little bit, to pass his freshly caught crabs or see my friends buy tilapia for fish tacos later in the week, but I’ve prioritized an omelet and kettle korn over fish, yet again.

He always has a trivia question, which, if answered properly without the aid of a smartphone, generally wins one a lobster tail.  I glance at the question every week, hoping that one Sunday, I’ll just instinctively know the answer.  It’ll just come to me because, that week, I’d be destined to have lobster tail for dinner.

I go to this market every. Sunday.  Never have I guessed the question properly.  Most weeks I don’t even bother, while others I’ll stand in front of his table for a good five minutes and wrack my brain for memories of Seinfeld episodes or basic American History facts.  Perhaps my losing streak is a sign of why my trivia team did so poorly in its one week of existence.  

And then last Sunday, everything changed.  I was forcing my kale into my resuable bag, when I overheard, “Wait, so what’s the answer?”  

I looked up at the board before I looked up at the inquisitive soul.

“No, l know this one!  ...may I?”

I’m not aware of what I’m saying, my body’s just going with it.  My mind is hours ahead of me, already submerging my free lobster tail in large saucers of butter with a large glass of pinot grigio in the other hand.  What a lovely Sunday evening was in store.

The Seafood Man signals for me to answer, gesturing that he’s given me the floor, the opportunity to prove myself worthy of his trivia.  My Venezuelan roots have prepared me for this moment.  After 24 years, I was going to milk my heritage for a free lobster tail, and I internally acknowledged that it was some perverse form of affirmative action that I fully supported.

“Angel Falls.  The world’s highest waterfall is Angel Falls and it’s in Canima - the rainforest in Venezuela!”  I sputter it out quickly, as though if I don’t, I’ll forget that I’ve been to this massive waterfall.   He nods, but not enthusiastically.  He looks amused, but not in a Bob Barker “Let’s look at what you’ve just won!” kind of way.

I look back at the whiteboard where the question was scrawled hours before.

“What is the world’s highest waterfall and what country is it in?  Guess correctly and win a free … NOTHING.”

My heart sinks.

Affirmative action is a lie.

I will be eating kettle korn for dinner, if I can ration it to last until 6pm.

I won’t be buying that bottle of pinot grigio.  

I’ll submerge my sorrows in saucers of butter.

I’ll never win that lobster tail.

“It was too easy this week,”  Seafood Man lets me down gently.  “Everyone was getting it right and we ran out.”

I was shamed.  I quietly walked away, my head low, to buy four bell peppers for $1 - left to wonder what it would be like to one day be able to leave the Seafood Man with my head high, and a plastic bag full of aquatic goodness.

Until next week, I suppose.

Baltimore Farmer's Market

Almost every Sunday, a dear friend of mine picks my lazy self up from my apartment and we head to the Farmer's Market under JFX.  This has become my happy place in this city.  For the brief, shameful, three weeks I tried my hand at online dating in Baltimore, the market was front and center on my profile.  "What do you do?"  Answer: I spend time at the market.  "Where are you on a typical Friday night?"  Answer: Thinking about the market.  

Perhaps it wasn't quite that bad, but nearly.  I mentioned it quite a bit and got many, "What do you like to cook??" messages.  Rolling in a little later than usual this morning, my kale guy was fresh out.  Devastated, he promised me he'd set a pound aside for me next week.  Still, I was able to walk out this week with zucchini, lesser kale from a different farmer, green beans, an eggplant, peaches, tomatoes, bell peppers, blueberries, my usual bag of kettle korn and a bouquet of flowers for under $25.  All fresh, all local.

To the right is a photo of Baltimore's most handsome basset hound mutt with my fresh flowers.  As you can tell, he just adores the forced glamor shots.

I can't give the market enough praise.  I love the omelet guy and the goodness you can buy from him for $7, I love that $3 will get me a bag of fresh kettle korn, I love the ginger cardamon lemonade when I'm sweating through my clothes, I love the man who plays his trashcan-turned-guitar, I love the children hula-hooping, the bike smoothie guy, the smoke from the pit beef, the man who's been giving me free samples of corn the past few trips, and just the energy of this city that pulsates throughout the bottom of the expressway between 8am and noon every Sunday.  

After the market today, I caught up with a friend at Charmington's,  hit up Wyman Park with little guy (little guy pictured above, and parks will be another post for another day) and then went to the BMA to check out the Sondheim exhibit for the finalists (and winner!) for this year's prize.  I ended my afternoon at the Whole Foods in Mt. Washington, where I realized that not only was my ten year-old Corolla to sketchy for the area, so was I.  I picked up another loaf of gluten-free bread, some goat's cheese, tofu, tamari for my asian kicks, and returned to downtown where my car and I fit in just fine.

For the first time in a long while, I was overwhelmed at my options come dinner time.  I settled on this frittata, regretting my lack of dill, and adding slices of my amazing tomatoes, plus an on-hand lemon to it.  Paired with a glass of sauvignon blanc and a cuddly dog, it was a lovely way to toast a relaxing weekend.  I'd say I'll eat my blueberries for dessert, but I've been snacking on them all day.

So, if you're new to Bmore, get yourself to the market!  Sundays 8am-noon, April through November.  I realize I have now made myself a resuable-bag-using, kale-purchasing, Whole Foods-patronizing, NYTimes Recipes For Health-making cliche, but I'm alright with that.  I also compost now, so I may as well just embrace my inner hippie and start making my own kombucha.  It's only a matter of time. (Sarcasm!  ...sort of)

An Oven

I cook quite a bit.  There are few things I love more in the world than coming home, putting on a podcast, and cooking up a storm.  My only roommate is my dog, but I still manage to cook for four to five people a night.  A few months ago, my 1973 (rough estimate) oven went on strike.  It was a crapshoot every time I turned it on, and I had to have a clever back up plan for every meal that called for baking.  I sauteed a lot of kale.

My landlord concurred that it wasn't just a broken oven, it was an old, decrepit oven that needed to be replaced.  I thanked the kitchen appliance gods that had also gotten me a new fridge a few weeks before hand, but not until I had two straight months of mysteriously chunky milk and thawing frozen vegetables.

I came home from work two hours early today; I haven't been feeling well and was hoping I could just nap off what I theorize is an impending cold.  As I was approaching my block, I wondered why on earth there was a massive 18-wheeler on the corner, and when I got to my building, I knew what it was.  My oven had arrived.  After weeks of bookmarking recipes that called for an oven, it was finally here.  But it had arrived the same day I just wanted to turn my room into a cave and sleep until it was dark.

I tried to take the dog for a long walk to give the maintenance guy some privacy while doing the 'ol oven switcharoo (he declined my offers of assistance), but a chubby, short dog is not inclined to walk for longer than 30 minutes when it's 88 degrees out.  When we got back, I tried to do some more work, because napping while a man installs your new oven just feels weird.

He left at five.  I should've just stayed at the office.

All my kvetching aside, I still got a solid two-hour nap in this afternoon and am feeling slightly less "ehhh."  The sneezing and runny nose persist, though.  I now have a functioning oven, after months of being relegated to the stovetop!

So you're new to Bmore.  May I suggest some gluten-free baking options for when you find some wonderfully priced avocados at Safeway?  (Inspiration found here)  I didn't have chevre or parsley on hand, so I used swiss cheese and some smoked Chipotle hot sauce.  Bacon would've been phenomenal on it, as well.  If you're new to Bmore and sick in colder weather months, I cannot recommend Soup's On highly enough.  They make my ill I-don't-want-to-cook-but-need-to-eat-something-lest-I-disintegrate heart happy.

Fun aside: my new oven came with a "Recipe for Safer Cooking!" pamphlet, complete with colored illustrations on how to keep an eye on your food.  It's also designed as though it could be on a Tampax box, with some violet tones and swirly pink font.  Wonderful.