local sardines that were pulled from the water just hours before we ate them for lunch with sauteed turnip greens, Hog Island oyster bar
Saturday was one of those lovely days that sticks in your memory for a long time to come. We started by hitting up the farmer's market, as we often do these days. Mr. Food Musings has a hard time navigating crowds -- and let's be honest, he loves his morning pastry -- so he makes a beeline for Frog Hollow as soon as we get there for a fruit turnover (most recently pear, apple and currant) and a coffee while I wander around outside, stuffing my brightly-colored woven bag full of whatever we need. Saturday it was Fuji apples, navel oranges, bacon from Prather Ranch (the stuff at Fatted Calf is unbeatable on taste, but it's been really fatty of late), eggs, a half-loaf of bread, and tomatoes.
Yes, you read that right. Tomatoes.
I stopped by the booth that was selling them, a bit stunned. In the last few years, I've been slowly retrained to instinctively know what grows when: asparagus in early spring, strawberries in summer, Early Girl tomatoes when the rest of the country is turning to thoughts of fall. These tomatoes weren't anemic looking like the ones in the grocery store, either. They were plump, fire-engine red beauties that felt heavy in my hand. I stood there for a minute, watching the crowd palm one after the next. Then I sprung into action, swiftly picking out four to come home with me. I paid nearly $8 for them, and as I was handing over the bills, I asked the woman who took them from me -- she was plump with copper skin and black curls and called out "Tomatoes, locally grown" from time to time -- how they grew their fruit. "In greenhouses," she replied. "They're inside so we don't have to worry about pests," she continued. When I asked where her farm was, she replied, "Winters," pointing to the sign behind her. "It's near Davis. Very local." (Clearly an astute marketer.) As I walked away, I was still turning over the idea of March tomatoes in my mind, giving my head a figurative scratch. When I got home, I sat down at the computer and looked up my first Fresh from the Farm column, about Elston Family Farm tomatoes, and realized that the time has, in fact, arrived for hothouse tomatoes. Hard to believe that so many months have gone by, nearly a year in seasonal terms. Here we are nearly back at spring again. Zuckerman's Farm stand is green with asparagus as far as the eye can see now, and this was the first weekend lines snaked around the market for a paper basket of their expertly deep-fried stalks.
As I walked around the market, eyeballing picture perfect tulips and round Globe artichokes, I started thinking about how it's not just produce that is seasonal -- it's life. Flowers, trees, animals, even humans all come alive again like clockwork when the sun spends more time here. It beat down on San Francisco all weekend, and with the time change it was like someone had snapped their fingers. Hibernation was over. The streets were buzzing with people -- people milling around, the weather reason enough for a stroll; people sitting in cafes and restaurants whose sidewalk tables, the ones that were empty two weeks ago, overflowed with humanity. I saw long stretches of leg that've been hidden away for months on end, and long hair was caught up in ponytails. Dogs trotted happily along, and even in the daytime, the streets hummed with noise and sparkled with energy.
When I finished my shopping, I found Mr. FM sitting outside at the edge of the Bay, a newspaper spread across his lap. I stole a few bites from the buttery remains of his breakfast, and as we prepared to head back to the car, having spotted disgraced mayor Gavin Newsom walking by in a white button down and jeans, we started talking about lunch. We wanted to keep it small, since we were anticipating a rather grand feast come dinner time. "Want to try for a seat at Hog Island?" I asked. The hungry look in his eyes was all the yes I needed.
We found ourselves seated with a view of the Bay in minutes. (Thank you Mark, party of 2, for bailing early on your spot.) We ordered a dozen mixed oysters, a plate of sardines and one glass of bubbly between the two of us. There is nothing like slurping up a few oysters, briny and cold from their recent ride in the sea, and following them with a few sips of champagne, the bubbles tickling the back of the throat. I sat at that bar, my hair mussed and unwashed, my bag full of food, staring at the water that ribboned out in front of me, its color the same blue-gray as the eyes of a newborn. I was overcome by a tingly feeling of contentment.
On our way out again, I caught a glimpse of a little boy napping in one corner of the market, a black and white kid goat by his side. Too cute not to capture on camera. He perked up as people started gathering around to photograph him, but while he was lying there, half in the sun and half out, eyes shut, petting his goat every now and again, he looked as satisfied as I felt.
“One potato, two potato, three potato, four, five potato, six potato, seven potato, more.” That old-fashioned rhyme doesn’t even begin to account for the 20+ varieties of tubers David Little grows each season. The Tomales area organic farmer specializes in dry-farming, a practice that minimizes or eliminates irrigation in favor coaxing water out of the earth and into the topsoil. The result is some of the best potatoes you’ll ever butter and salt.
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