Every Monday in Koloa on the south shore of Kauai, there's a farmer's market in Anne Knudson park. Of all the things I wanted to do while in Hawaii, this was the one real food adventure I had planned.
We walked down to the beach first to catch the morning sun, and returned to the condo sandy and smelling of the sea, our skin caked with salt, just in time to head off to the market, which opens at noon. The whole family went -- Mom, Dad, Little Sister and The Boyfriend, Little Brother and bien sur Mr. Food Musings.
I had promised them fresh fish and tropical flowers. We pulled into the parking lot and trudged across the pavement. The midday sun radiated fierce waves of heat that bounced off the blacktop and onto our skin. Thankfully, the very first vendor at the market was selling fresh coconuts. He'd lop off the top with a long sharp knife (which the men in the group identified as a type of machete), stick in a straw and collect his buck fifty. When you were done, you could bring them back for him to whack into chunks and scoop out the meat. The coconuts weren't brown and hairy, but pale green, smooth, very heavy. The coconut milk was a revelation, not for its flavor but for how little it tasted like coconut milk I've had. It was thin and nearly clear and not very sweet. We each got one and walked around the small market sipping on our authentic hunks of Hawaiiana, smiling, sweating, proud and full of aloha spirit. In other words, silly-looking tourists.
Little Brother was after mangoes for his mango lassi, and we found some immediately. Reddish-gold, this variety was firm to the touch, but the woman selling them swore they were ripe. "We pick these from a mango tree on the island and they don't have to soften to ripen," she swore. At $2.25 apiece, I wasn't dying to take the risk. I walked away to think about it.
We bought some pineapples, large ones and babies. Small, delicate Japanese eggplant begged to be roasted and served with pasta one night, and limes were so cute and round that Mom came away with ten. "They were practically giving them away," she explained with a guilty smile.
Little Sister came running up. "I found some beautiful red tomatoes, and the biggest okra I've ever seen!" she gushed. We scooped those up, as well as some dark purplish-green African basil. A deep sniff produced strong licorice notes, and I threw it in the bag for the pasta sauce.
I realized then that there was no fresh fish. I was disappointed, but soldiered on looking for flowers in bright fuschias and reds. A selection of pink orchids and coral red anthuriums went into the bag.
My shopping list exhausted, I meandered back to the mangoes. I stood there silently peering at them. Next to me was a woman who looked to be in her 60s or 70s. A bright red strapless muu-muu hugged her ample bosom and her sagging flesh spilled out over the edges. She wore comically large sunglasses and as she studiously placed mango after mango into her bag, looked up at me. "This is what I spend my gin and cigarette money on," she rasped. "Can't beat 'em." And then she laughed a deep down, throaty laugh. I was sold. I piled four or five into our bag and walked back to give the coconut man my drained shell.
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