Farewell To Lettuce

We're headed for the dog days now, and last week I pulled up the lettuces, which had grown to the size of small trees, as well as the mustard and arugula.  That marked the beginning of our annual period of abstention from lettuce.

From late April through the beginning of July, we eat lettuce every day, lots of it.  Then, it's over until the next spring.  When the tomatoes ripen in August I serve them in splendid isolation, with oil and salt and pepper.  The notion of tomatoes and lettuce together in a salad is an oxymoron, and an abomination unto Nature.  Or just about.

We are not left entirely without raw greens by the lettuce's departure, however.  Until November I can count on the young leaves of Swiss chard (de-stemmed) for sandwiches and things like pasta salads.  But chard is too strong, both in flavor and texture, to use as a main salad ingredient.  After the killing frosts, we abstain from raw greens altogether, and proceed to devour the broccoli, spinach, kale, chard, peas, beans, pumpkins, squash, eggplant, zucchini and tomato sauce that glut our freezer.

When the snow flies we eat raw carrots, which I don't grow but can buy at the farmers' market, and apples.  (The latter, by the way, are the only locally grown item in the supermarket.)  But supermarket lettuce and salad greens are shipped in huge trucks from god-knows-where, and it just doesn't feel right to eat them, in these apocalyptic days.

This kind of seasonal eating reminds me of an advantage of the rhythm method that I once saw listed in a Catholic publication.  It said that by forcing couples to abstain from intercourse for certain periods each month, the rhythm method functions as a powerful aphrodisiac. 

It's true:  absence makes the mouth water.  After a nine-month separation from lettuce, we seasonal eaters pounce on those first buttery, tender leaves like a horde of sex-crazed fiends.

 

Real Local

Yesterday our micro-village held a pork roast and silent auction to benefit the owners of the country store that burned to the ground three weeks ago

It was by far the largest gathering I've witnessed in Vermont.  In the wedge-shaped parking lot in front of the fire hall, dozens stood in line to buy meal tickets.  There was a huge line to get food, a line in front of the baked-goods stall, and the auction room was so packed you could barely get around.

I greeted the people who were selling tickets, serving food, cutting meat, selling cookies, manning the auction.  I saw lots of people I recognized, and lots fewer whose names I could recall (I have a terrible time with names).  I did not speak to the honorees or to their surviving dog, Molly.  I figured they wouldn't remember me--we were not assiduous patrons of their store, since it stood in the opposite direction of our usual shopping expeditions--and they were probably worn out with greeting and thanking.   

Instead, I sat under a tent and ate the piles of food that had been put on my plate, nibbled cubes of Consider Bardwell cheese, drank a cola for the first time in years, and breathed in the barbecue fumes, the sudden summer air, and the feeling that something of real importance was taking place. 

Obviously, people showed up to support the store owners and encourage them to build again.  But yesterday's crowds could not possibly have consisted only of friends and clients of the owners, or of friends of their friends and clients, or of the entire population of the micro village.  No, those crowds came from other places, other villages with their own little, threatened stores.  And they came not only to help these particular owners, but in affirmation of the physical, social and even spiritual importance of these tiny businesses that are hanging on by a thread even while they anchor us to the "local."

When I moved here six years ago from a land of malls and superstores, the idea of supporting local cheese makers, potters, bread bakers, oil painters, glass blowers, goat farmers, and sellers of maple syrup and quarts of 2% milk had never crossed my mind.  Now, thanks to my friends and neighbors, the real meaning of  "local" has finally taken root in my brain, and in my heart.

Buying Honey

We were on our way back from Bennington the other day, when I saw the sign in front of a small house, “Honey For Sale.”

“Stop!” I yelled, and we pulled into the driveway. We could see some hives in the backyard. Next to the sign stood a neat wooden cubby, with a cash box and a note explaining that purchases were based on the honor system. There were five-pound jars of honey, and lovely ocher-colored beeswax candles, and some plastic boxes full of honeycomb.

We bought two big jars and a pair of candles, and drove off with me feeling unaccountably happy. I suppose one reason was the serendipitous nature of the find: we weren't looking for honey, or candles, that particular day, yet there they were, in all their sudden glory. And the other reason is that we were doing something for the bees. Local honey is not always easy to find, nor are beeswax candles. Yet the best way to help keep colony collapse at bay is to patronize local bee keepers.

Local honey isn't cheap. That day we paid $3.20/lb. At Sam's, honey from the other end of the earth costs $1.92/lb. I was brought up to be a frugal shopper, to calculate price per pound, to buy the supermarket house brand whenever possible. So observing the “buy local” injunction is taking considerable readjustment on my part. It's a good thing I grow my own vegetables, because I don't think I could bring myself to pay the prices at the farmer's market.

But bees are a different matter. I've been gardening outdoors for three months now, and I've seen wasps and bumblebees galore, but not a single honeybee. The bees need help. Plus, they are charming and mysterious and produce, literally, sweetness and light. If you take all that into account, local honey is a bargain.