I’ve come to the conclusion that falling in love with the farmers market while married to a meat-and-potatoes man is somewhat on par with being unfaithful. He looks at you questionably, a little bewildered, knowing you’re up to something but not quite sure what.
To give you a little background, the farmers market opens in my town every Saturday from 9 a.m. until noon, May through October. Some of the vendors continue into the winter months at an indoor town building. Although their wares are limited during the chill, I feel good knowing that year-round I am eating what is in season. In a quest to plan my meals around vegetables rather than add them only as a side dish like second-class citizens, I look forward to these Saturday morning adventures where I go on the prowl for my usual favorites. Occasionally, I am attracted to something new and enticing. Determined to get over my shyness, I will apprehensively try a new item. I come home armed with an assorted and colorful array of disease-fighting carotenoids, flavonoids, phytonutrients, phytosterol and lycopene, all in the form of food. These goodies are not necessarily organic but all locally grown, which I am convinced is the key to extending wellness for as long as possible.
Back to my suspicious husband. These weekly, early-morning pursuits are a big disappointment to my husband who eyes me warily as I explain I am going food shopping but not to the supermarket. When I return home and spend hours exploring recipes to transform my raw veggies into delectable cuisine, he looks over my shoulder and gets very quiet.
Last night’s dinner went something like this:
H (approaching the table): “What’s this?”
Me (already seated and taking my vitamins): “Butternut squash with a berry sauce, sesame broccoli and Basmati rice.”
H (sitting down with apprehension): “Where’s the meat and potatoes?”
Me (shaking head): “You eat enough meat when you’re out; like the other night at the Greek restaurant when you ate a huge plate of moussaka and then complained you were overstuffed.”
H (eating and liking it in spite of himself): “But my system can’t take it. It’s too accustomed to meat and potatoes.”
Me (bargaining): “I made rice, so you don’t need potatoes.”
H (whining): “It’s not the same. This is all good, but there should be some meat.”
Me (rolling my eyes): “It won’t kill you.”
H (digging his heels in): “It might.”
Me (dripping with sarcasm): “Fine then. Next time, I won’t marry a carnivore.”