Our family has been enjoying the three (or more!) different farmer’s markets in the communities surrounding our new home town in Smalltown, Ontario. We love the fresh food and the opportunity to chat with the folks who grow it. As a long-time fan of the insect world, Mr. Sensitive loves buying fresh honey and listens to beekeepers describe how they care for their hives. (Mr. Sensitive once described himself as a larva snuggled into its bed.) He purchases honey with the eye of an experienced connoisseur, preferring wildflower and clover and fancy honeybee containers.
Little Miss Adorable loves the artisan crafts and jewellery – there’s a handcrafted rug and textile vendor we visit religiously. I know Little Miss Adorable has her eye on the gorgeous pink quilt on sale there. The Dunk is an eager shopper, ready to snack on any produce he can get his hands on. Peppers, tomatoes, fruit are all chewed through by the time we get them home. It’s hard to convince a two year old that the corn will taste much better once the husk is off and it’s cooked.
As the chief cook of the family, I seek out fresh seasonal produce with an eye for easy meals. Tomatoes, basil, corn, potatoes, crisp cucumbers, peppers and peaches need little more than a quick turn on the BBQ or a fast chop to transform them into brilliant cuisine. Hubby commented the other day that food even tastes better in Smalltown. We’ve gotten off the convenience food treadmill that too busy brings. Real food always does taste better.
Nothing tastes like fresh baked bread slathered in homemade jam (even if I didn’t make it, I still bought it from someone who did;) I scour the markets looking for bread a preserves. Hubby patrols the markets in search of bigger game – fresh baked pies. Longtime devotee to all things sweet and pastry wrapped, Hubby’s been eagerly, um, sampling, the baked goods from across the county. Buttertarts, assorted fruit fillings and the never ending quest for a traditional Scottish meat pie has him chatting up bakers in three townships.
The other day’s excursion found us buying two summer fruit pies to serve with ice cream made from a local dairy and crown our 100 mile meal.
After dinner I put the kids to bed while Hubby washed dishes and cleared the table. It was a glorious 100 mile meal, tomatoes, basil, crisp cucumbers, fresh burgers and grilled vegetables; I had plans for the leftovers. The next morning Hubby woke up complaining of a stomach ache. Fearing food poisoning, I quickly realised the kids and I were fine.
Two empty pie plates were testimony to the probable cause of Hubby’s mysterious illness.