The other day at the Union Square market I encountered a farm that was apparently run entirely by young & beautiful rock n’ roll chicks, the type of girls you’d call grrrls (just me?). Music floated in the air as their tattooed limbs gathered heirloom tomatoes and rosy peaches.

I’m pretty sure that that is my destiny, frankly. Youth of the world, unite! Let’s go grow some veggies.

An absolutely perfect plum.

Saltie’s ‘The Famous Bun’: on that sea-salty in-house foccacia were thick slices of crumbly sharp cheddar, crisp lettuce leaves, rich summer tomato and snappy homemade pickles; the latter two leaked their respective juices into a healthy spread of thick mayonnaise, making a sauce awash with deliciousness.

A salad of firm-ripe avocado and richly sweet beets with basil and tender green beans, sharp with chile and lemon: it was beautiful and bold. Better yet, though, was a salad of those same (absurdly sweet) beets, roasted and then tossed with tomato, capers, basil, shaved parmesan, and croutons. I nearly died.

But things just kept getting better. Yes, better.

Because I have rediscovered corn. How have I not had corn on the cob in so long? I suppose because I never had reason to believe it would so, so fine. My trusty farmers provided me with the season’s finest, and it was literally candy-sweet dredged in butter.

And the salad I made with the corn, you ask? (Because of course I also made a salad). The one with heirloom tomato and sweet onion with thyme and basil? Seriously, it was fucking out of control.

I nearly died. Again. I ate it with a slice of toasted baguette spread with dijon and piled with rare roast beef, and my heart stood still.

Oh, Nico, work that melancholy drawl and talk to me some more about leaving in the fairest of the seasons. Lately, it has been cool and beautiful, and eggplants and bell peppers arrived at the market today, and all I can think about is how much I miss home.

(So enough already with the bombastic declarations. I’m still shopping at the Columbia market, and it’s because I’ve really come to love those people. And the carrots weren’t that good, anyway. Don’t worry, I’m making a list.)

But back to some oh-so-generously fitting music: songs that have been on my mind, lately:

New York, I love you, but you’re bringing me down by LCD Soundsystem (watch the video. It is amazing).

I’m Coming Home by The Almighty Defenders

The latter I just happened to hear looking at this. Avenue B is a street my dad lived on, once. It was an awesome, old apartment across from a church yard, on a street lined with trees and rosemary bushes and within walking distance of Quack’s Bakery, of the salty oat cookies.

The in-the-moment perfection of this series of photographs —music not included— should be accredited to a newly discovered blog, one with a seemingly endless supply of just such perfect moments (many of them, recently, New York and New-York-market centric) captured by a generous eye: Threading in the Choirs. Go, peruse, feel any of the day’s ugliness washed away.

There are people, things, places out there to love. And —let’s face the wonderful, sentimental truth of it— places to call home.

I know a place— the sun shines a whole lot, and most every sandwich has ripe avocado on it.

Whenever I realize that a handful of people actually read my ramblings here, much less finding some small enjoyment in it, I feel really touched. I mean, I talk so much nonsense. I’m constantly having meaningless realizations. Maybe it’s because I’m in my early twenties (tomorrow is my birthday, and I will be twenty-two!). Regardless, that doesn’t mean the universe has to hear about it when you all of a sudden recognize a really excellent system for organizing your socks or something.

Anyway, thanks for being here.

Also, since you love this shit:

Remember that wonderful, smooth-skinned old gentleman from the other day? The one who squabbles with his jacket? Well, here’s a story for you: my friend Wyn was about to leave the store for a break the other day; I asked him where he was going, and he responded, “Well, I’m going to the store to find something to eat. Then, I’m going to get coffee…”

And here’s where our friend, our hero, whom I had just rang up, pitched in,

“We know one thing you don’t need to go looking for, at least— because you’ve got a pretty girl right here. No need to find a beautiful girl! You’ve already got one! It’s a shame I’m too old for her, myself.”

I just about melted, because, of course, I’m absolutely in love with him.

Now, then. Here’s my market list for next week: carrots, bread, a half dozen eggs, a handful of green beans, a few new potatoes, a small head of cabbage. cherries. a couple tomatoes if they’re looking nice; some yogurt. I’m aiming for $20 or so, here.

What do I plan on making with the haul? Why, sweet and crunchy carrot salads, both my classic one and a favorite modification with raw grated beetroot + fresh ginger (also, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall recently wrote about carrots for the Guardian, and I’m certainly intrigued by his lovely recipes); immensely satisfying bowls of chilled, soy-sauce-and sriracha-slicked spicy cabbage; sprightly green beans & new potatoes with plenty of olive oil. I also have some cornmeal pate brisee in my freezer, happily stowed away for some ripe fruit or other.

I’ll keep you all informed. Because, bless you, I know you’ll be interested.

“Everything in moderation, including moderation.” — Julia Child

I’ve been a fool.

Today, I was downtown; I stopped by the Strand and ogled, got some coffee, and successfully bought various bits of dairy (mozzarella, creme fraiche, grana padano) and meats (prosciutto), some pretty multicolored lentils, and a Thai chile pepper at the Union Square Whole Foods for just above my budget; eleven dollars, total.

I am that responsible mom: I calculate by weight per pound, I compare, I eyeball and consider, I compromise, I do the math for how much I’m paying for a single ingredient per meal. I get the best deal. I’m getting really good at this.

Excepting, of course, that I’m a fool.

Clearly, I was in Union Square, today. It’s Saturday. So, I steeled myself for my exit into the market— not nearly well enough, it would seem. I haven’t been to the Union Square farmer’s market since late winter, and my heart nearly exploded. I felt like crying, because I had already done my weekly shopping, and you should have seen these carrots.

The Union Square market overwhelms me, to be certain; I like the modesty of the Columbia Market; I already know whose greens are best there, whose eggs and apples. Yet: seeing the former market today in full bloom, I realized it’s like a lovely supermarket— at least for me; it has absolutely everything I could want or need. Everything. I could make a list beforehand and find it all there. Check ‘em off one by one. And I know that’s not the strategy that I said I was taking henceforth; it’s not the strategy chefs use or what have you. But seeing what’s good once you’re there works well enough for navigating through the dregs of winter; it works fine if you have the resources to buy based purely on rosiness— rather than, that is, based upon what looks great, but is also cheap and you know you’ll find utterly satisfying.

Making a list beforehand, in short, is essential to budgeting.

Also: it’s convenient, in a sense, to stop by the Columbia Market on my way to work, but convenience is not the point of shopping at the market; the very point is to take your time, peruse and prod and reflect. I feel that Saturday may once more become a market day, every now and then.

I am eschewing one form of moderation for another; I’m going to learn my way around that downtown Garden of Eden, and leisurely stroll among the jewel-bright produce; the list will be checked off, carrot-salads will be made.

I feel swell.

At the market this week: peas, herbs, and cucumbers, oh my! I was running late and the harvest staggered me. Utterly overwhelmed, I sheepishly bought asparagus once more and made mental notes for next week.

But I did get some peas! Fresh shelled peas are absurdly sweet and tender, and they stood out like gems in a salad made up of the tiny beauties with a small handful of mesclun, some shaved onion, and fresh basil; alongside was a homemade cornmeal biscuit split and filled with some good ham.

So, then, the weekend unfolded. And it was hot. It was (and is) Southern hot. I made said cornmeal biscuits. Peas, ham, and corn biscuits can’t really be beat; they match perfectly well with the sticky and suffocating air. They have a certain cleanliness to them; they are unassuming and simple— unfussy: a slip of mustard here, a pat of butter there, and you’re done. There was also a chopped salad of roma tomato (yes, I bought more), red onion, parsley & baby greens and chopped hard boiled egg. Eaten directly in front of the fan, it was summer on a plate. Cool and juicy and just-rich with the egg. There were strawberries stewing into jam. The sweetest smell in the world wafted up, pure and unapologetic in its syrupy glory.

A cornmeal biscuit with butter and fresh strawberry jam this morning, some plain yogurt on the side, and I was fueled for a sweaty, dragging day of Amy’s Bread in Chelsea Market, a brilliant iced macchiato, radishes in vinaigrette alongside roasted asparagus, tomatoes slow roasting in the oven for later. Like me.

foodstuffs.

One of the things I like about asparagus is that it tastes so green. It has a verdant, grassy, spring-in-its-step kind of quality; it is mild and nutty, fresh and lively. The asparagus of last week was tossed in a parsley & garlic vinaigrette along with slices of a seared chicken breast still hot from the pan, soft baby arugula, and toasted almonds— this was not only delicious, but fell onto the plate and instantly looked restaurant-worthy: bright, beautiful, and architectural.

It was a faithful sidekick to some eggs; lightly dressed in a vinaigrette and offering a vivid contrast to the dense cloud of a fluffy dandelion-yellow omelet with a generous helping of parmesan folded in— the best omelet I have ever had, excepting maybe the specimen I had for brunch at the Publican back in Chicago. But these eggs, people, from those farmers at the Columbia market. They’re crazy good. Hot damn.

Yet, while asparagus was perhaps the word of the week, there was also a warm-weather fingerling potato salad with smooth, tender potatoes, capers, celery, and cilantro; roasted chicken breast with crispy-edged shaved potato, smothered in Italian salsa verde and squeezed with lemon— the oil and juices wilting some baby greens nestled underneath. Best of all, I cooked that rhubarb into a compote: let it stew in its own juices until it folded into a slump of sweet submission, sadist that I am, and dolloped the mellow, humbly sweet stuff atop my yogurt in the morning. It was also beautiful with seeded flatbread crackers, alongside caramelized onion and some goat cheese and cheddar.

Summarily: I think that at this point I know my way around a piece of chicken, in terms of juicy doneness better than I ever have (thanks, Julia Child!); rhubarb is fucking amazing; and I find, as ever, that asparagus is not my favorite— not to say I don’t love it, you know, I’ve just always felt I should love it more than I do— it has such a cult following. I find that it’s nothing much compared to the pungent, sweet earthiness of ramps.

After yesterday’s market, I now have quite a few ramps, actually, and those are going to be fast friends with a plate of spaghetti and a smattering of toasted breadcrumbs, let me tell you. Hence, the new week is boding well; also in mind are rhubarb pie, and omelets with leftover salsa verde.

I will, as ever, keep you posted.

A couple of nights ago, a tiny old woman —damn near precious, with pearlescent hair, piercing blue eyes, a small pink mouth— came into the store, and she began weaving yarns for me; she was telling me about her grandchildren and most of all her travels. The sunset in Turkey. I was wistful and attentive, and lead by some sort of a gut instinct, her little, papery hand grabbed mine; with utter sincerity she told me, “If I can do it, anyone can do it. You can do it.” It was endlessly heartening, and very well timed.

The next day, an olive-skinned and hugely tall, monastic blind man came in. He had a stately demeanor, a missionary air, a mysterious accent, enchantingly large and elegant hands. He wanted some books for his son, and that was that. But there was something so magnificent about him and his trek through Morningside Heights —his very existence. He was inspiring, and I mean really; it sounds trite, but he really was. He exuded the zen wisdom of an ancient traveler, and while we’re in the realm of superlatives, that light of a genuinely good person. And he bought The Phantom Tollbooth. My coworker Wynn looked reflective in his wake and said, “I feel like he should be the hero in some movie or something”. Something epic.

Last night, too, was epic. A Ladies’ Night of truly superior pizza at Motorino in the East Village. Good pizza is food for the soul: the floury pillow of a yeasty crust interspersed with crackly, charred bits; the slick of buttery, warm oil; pliant cheeses; these— specifically, all they require and provoke— are the things upon which culture was built. Our pizzas were a seasonal ramp pie and the soppressata. While the former was softly sweet and mild, floral with an endlessly pleasant saltiness, the latter was savory and sharp with mature garlic and the herbal bite of fresh oregano. Hazelnut and chocolate ice creams shortly followed, and we were very happy. We couldn’t stop chattering about how successful it all was, as if disaster lingered at the edges of each of our previous gatherings. I think what we really meant was how particularly good the food was, this time.

Finally, we arrive at this morning. This fine morning, who should show their regal, ridged green heads; who should arrive at the market but asparagus? I had a dizzy, maniacal grin on my face as I gathered two large bundles, along with one of its brethren— rosy-pink rhubarb.

Two dollars in the bank and it’s still all coming up roses.

So, the other day I found a chalkboard on the landing of my apartment building; it now hangs on the wall in my room and will get a weekly treatment on what I plan to do with new market purchases. I’m really looking forward to filling it up every week, and wiping it clean to start afresh.

Granted, we’re still buying the same old same old here, the winter dregs: squash, apples, beets, potatoes, onions. But (!) last time I went to the Columbia market, a new booth had suddenly arrived, a booth that was very exciting. Being the impulsive person that I am, I decided right then to go the simple route and leave things as they are, by which I mean forsake the 97th Street market. These newcomers had the most beautiful freshly sprouted mesclun, arugula, tender lettuces, and pea shoots. So lovely. Worth sticking around for, when you eat as many greens as I do. The weather was warm that day, and I lunched on market purchases— a hunk of baguette with smooth, mild farmer’s cheese infused with dill, an apple, and thick slices of a salami.

Last night was chilly and fresh; Aimee and I made our way back to Num Pang, of the absurdly flavorful Cambodian bahn-mi. Roasted vegetables burst from the grilled, hoagie-like baguettes (the hoagie-like nature being in the best possible way); Aimee’s had roasted Japanese yam and tender, deeply green Swiss chard— it was savory, with an intensely satisfying depth of flavor. Mine was a superbly spicy concoction of roasted cauliflower and eggplant-spread, and it was complex, warm, messy. Pickled vegetables brightened the palate from all sides: cucumber, carrots, and fresh cilantro on our sandwiches, and seasonal pickles a la carte: a pink-tinted mixture of celery root and red cabbage that offered a clean, mineral snap. There was blood-orange lemonade and much talk.

Today, I went to a huge comics festival; honestly, I was extremely disappointed in myself for choosing to be thrifty and not pick up a comic, print, or zine from the bright and intriguing mass of tables. I took some free postcards and mentally kicked my prudence all the way home. All the same, sitting in on some panels and seeing Chip Kidd (looking every bit the designer, in a blazer and a bright yellow polo) chat with David Mazzucchelli (looking every bit the artist, wearing inexplicable sunglasses in the dim interior) was pretty awesome.

But I’d say the real bright side of today, besides how vividly beautiful the sky was, is evident through my trusty chalkboard. Lunch was bright marinated beets with garlic, crumbled dried chile, and parsley spotting a bowl of farro tossed with a handful of greens, parmesan, and lemon + olive oil. And dinner! I bought eggs from a different farmer than usual this week, and thank heavens I did. They are the most gorgeous orange eggs; they are the eggs of childhood— the sense-memory of eggs, the archetype of their flavor, texture, and color. An omelet made up of a few of those, some lightly caramelized onion, and wilted spinach + arugula, was so very simple and amazing.

To-be-made items of particular interest on the ol’ chalkboard? A simple butternut squash soup, roasted sweet potato (yay!) with thyme, a sandwich on kalamata-rosemary bread with dill farmer’s cheese, arugula, beet + olive oil. And then some, but I’m very enthused about those.

The sandwich, in fact, is coming with me to the park tomorrow, and we’re going to live it up for free— and feel very accomplished about it all the same.