Gathering Real Food
(Page 5 of 6)
April/May 2004
By Linnea Johnson
Here, fortunately, I've already found the farmer's markets in Topeka and Lawrence. There's goodwill in the air, Real Food at the stands and real connections among one another. I am happy to be actively engaged in the life of the Real Food I buy, celebrating the producers and the produce, nourished by food and community alike, palate and soul tingling.
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If time is tight, I can zip through a farmer's market and grab a bunch of carrots, a round of cheese, loaf of bread, quart of creamy fresh milk and a dozen eggs in less time than it takes me to shoehorn my car into a supermarket parking lot and hike the stadium-sized store to collect the same items. So, finding Real Food doesn't have to be time-consuming along with fun and communal; it also can be efficient, when that's what you need.
Even when I'm not looking for it, Real Food seems to find me. Last spring I was driving along a dusty Kansas back road, showing the countryside to a friend visiting from Pennsylvania when we spotted a group of rare and handsome Longhorn cattle in a pasture right beside the road. We pulled over and got out to get a better look, and maybe take a photo of their beautiful cow faces. A pickup slowed down as it drove by. The driver rolled down his window and said, "Wanna see 'em close up? Follow us!"
See them we did. Photograph them we did. Find out their names, history and temperament we did. We spent most of an afternoon meeting the herd and chatting with Mike Capra, the Longhorns' owner, who told us what great mothers the cows are, and how low-maintenance the breed is. Turns out he owns a plumbing business and raises grass-fed, chemical-free beef on the side.
Even on vacation, I seek out Real Food. On Deer Isle, Maine, where I visit each September, Friday is farmer's market day in the church parking lot. I arrive before the growers do, eagerly awaiting the bounty and the conversation, and the sense of harmony and well-being I take home along with the delectable tomatoes and melons; bags of fresh-dug, earth-scented potatoes; green and ruby cabbages the size of my head; tasty rounds of goat and cow cheeses, and fragrant, irresistible smoked meats and seafood.
THE SPIRIT OF FOOD
Few things in life are more intimate, more evocative, than the food we eat. I remember my uncle whose mealtime grace was a jolly "Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat!" and my dad who said maybe we shouldn't be eating food that needed praying over, and an auntie who raised raspberries big as plums and sweet as honey.
Linnea Johnson writes stories, poems and novels, yearns for truth, aches for wisdom, but usually can settle for a lovely peach and blueberry pie nestled into a flaky shortbread crust.
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