Mediterranean Spinach Salad

I left the house in summer attire. Tank top. Flip flops. Sunglasses. And, headed out into the warm, balmy morning air for our local football jamboree. Upon arriving, I couldn't help but smile when I saw the skinny little legs poking out from under the mountainous shoulder attire. Hard to believe the fall sports season has arrived once again. Our previous week was spent at daily swimming lessons and anticipating the arrival of teacher placement letters. While my eldest and the baby couldn't be more thrilled for the school year to get underway, the 10-year old won't discuss it. Would barely look at his teacher placement letter when he finally had it in hand. It seems that if you don't acknowledge the start of school in any way, don't look at the letter telling you who your teacher is, even if it's the teacher you were hoping for, then perhaps it won't ever begin and summer will go on forever.

The game is over. I say a few pleasantries to friends just arriving for subsequent games. And then I take my leave. As I walk back to the car, I perceive tiny drops of water landing on my nose. My cheeks. I quicken my pace as I notice the dark clouds coming and a drop in the temperature. Once in the safety of my car, I feel a smidge of survivor's guilt as the clouds open up and large droplets of water splash onto my windshield quickly turning into a downpour. The friends I had just left behind had arrived in the same summer attire. Not a single umbrella to be seen. I hurry home.

One of the "Back-to-School" activities I looked forward to the most during my elementary years was that of purchasing school supplies. I loved school supplies. A fresh, new bottle of Elmer's glue without the glue glob and teeth marks that bedeck the top of each used bottle by year's end. The shiny new pencils without the aforementioned teeth marks. A ruler. And, of course, the pièce de résistance, a new box of Crayola crayons. Every year I would beg my mother for the Granddaddy box. The box with the built-in sharpener. The box with not just primary colors but 64 colors with names such as midnight blue, burnt sienna, mulberry, carnation pink and cornflower. And, every year (but one,) I would come home with the standard box of 12. I can't say I blame my mother. I would probably say "no" too because, for crying out loud, what happens to all of those crayons we buy each year? Do you know anyone who has actually used up a whole entire crayon down to a bitty nub? I suppose they go the way of hair bands, hair clips and single socks.

I do not have the same begging for the "64-crayon" box. I do not have it because I receive a list that tells me in great detail exactly which school supplies to buy my children. No questions asked. "3 2-pocket folders in the opaque colors of yellow, green and blue." "One 2-inch three ring binder in red and a 3-inch three ring binder in green. No zippered Trapper-Keepers allowed." "Two fine-tip black Sharpies and one ultra-fine tip Sharpie in red." "Graph paper, 1/4 inch scale, spiral bound." Years ago when I took my daughter's hand in mind and we headed out for that first school supply shopping trip, I practically sang from the rafters I was so excited. Little did I know that years later, this same annual trip would be fraught with stress as I agonized over details such as, "They're asking for two fine-tip black Sharpies but they only come in packs of 3 and ultra-fine doesn't come in red only black. Would a red "fine-tip" pen be okay? Will my child be humiliated in front of her classmates for bringing the incorrect items?" Doesn't this stress you out, my friend, just reading what I've written?

This year I finally wised-up, left the boys at home and took only my daughter and the instruction's from the 10-year old that if there was a choice of colors to get red or black. We each grabbed a cart and then, headed off in different directions with our lists. Quite seamless, I might say. And, after 7 years of school supply shopping, my attitude has evolved into, "They (the school) will get whatever I can find that's closest to what they're asking for and be happy about it." And with that, we walked out into the bright, hot sunlight with our purchases in hand and I cursed the fact that I had left my sunglasses on the kitchen counter, wrongly assuming earlier, that I wouldn't need them.

As we pulled up the driveway, we were greeted by a gaggle of shirtless boys running past us with sticks in hand. A bit "Lord of the Flyish," don't you think? Scooters and light sabers lay strewn across the pavement blocking our entrance into the garage. Safely inside, I glanced at the clock and realized that lo and behold, it was time to get dinner going. I set the bags of school supplies on the dining room table and got to work. Not having a formalized plan, other than to use up some herbs from my overflowing pots, the scant few vegetables from my garden and the Gravenstein apples on my counter, I poured myself a glass of sparkling water with a lemon slice, turned on some music and surveyed the food situation. I had managed to find fresh Coho salmon at my local market on sale for $5.99/lb so I brushed some olive oil on it, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, chopped up a handful of mixed herbs - rosemary, oregano, basil & thyme - scattered them across the top and then finished it off with a squeeze of lemon. I put it back in the fridge for a bit while I finished the dishes from that morning's breakfast prepped a Mediterranean spinach salad, cut up some bread, laid out some cheese and butter and poured a round of water. Thirty minutes later, I laid down my scrumptious grilled salmon and vibrant spinach salad on the table, hollered that dinner was ready (we really need a dinner bell) and sat down with my family to eat our meal. My daughter inhaled her spinach salad commenting that it was "Soooo delicious!" and the baby remarked that, "This dinner is soooo good I can't stop eating it." I'm sure he was referring to the whole dinner and not just the 5 pieces of bread he had wolfed down.

The busyness of dinner had died down. The dishes were washed and put away. The baby was in bed. The rest of the family had scattered to their own "wind-down" spot. I had a cup of peppermint tea in hand and had just pulled out a knife to start peeling the apples when I glanced outside. Already dark. 8:15 pm. Hmmmm. So strange how it comes on so quickly. Not but a month and a half ago, we all sat gazing out across the Puget Sound toward the Olympic mountains in anticipation of the fireworks beginning. At 10:30 pm it still wasn't dark enough.

I sliced up the Gravenstein apples. They were the first of the season at the Farmer's Market last weekend. The kiddos had found them a bit too tart to eat out of hand. I now laid them in the bottom of a baking dish. Sprinkled them with a mixture of oats, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon and butter and gently eased the whole concoction into the oven to bake. I sat down at the counter, sipped my tea and reflected on this day. This day, this meal, this weather. One foot in summer. One foot in fall. We were "betwixt the seasons." The heavy-scented aroma of baking apples topped with cinnamon brought the eldest children out of their hiding places and into the kitchen. One look at their eyes, I realized the sandman had already visited. I assured them we could have the apple crisp for breakfast. They nodded, appeased but sleepy, and shuffled back out of the kitchen.

Mediterranean Spinach Salad

(adapted from Mediterranean Summer Salad, Sunset, August 2009)

1 cup orzo pasta

2 cups coarsely diced tomatoes or halved cherry tomatoes - the ripest, sweetest ones you can find which are at your local grocery store or farmer's market right now

1 cup fresh basil leaves, chopped

4 oz feta cheese, crumbled

2 cups baby spinach leaves

1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

salt & pepper to taste

optional:

a handful of blanched green beans from your garden

a 1/2 can of rinsed & drained white beans (I have a thing about adding beans to everything.)

Cook orzo according to the package directions. Then, in a large bowl combine tomatoes, basil, feta, spinach, beans & beans. Add drained, cooked orzo.

In a small bowl, whisk together oil, vinegar, salt & pepper. Toss desired amount with salad.

PS: While I did put the orzo in the salad this time, next time I will try it without since my children just pushed it aside and ate the veggies. Who knew?

Originally written: August 29, 2009

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Rainy Day Vegetable Soup

After years of cajoling, pleading, begging and badgering by my children...I finally planted the oft-promised vegetable garden. Of course, once the hoopla surrounding the choosing of the vegetables and the planting of the seeds was over, I was left alone to tend to my little plot. (Just as I'm sure would happen if I ever cave to the cries of, "When can we have a puppy?" Just me, the full grown dog, his hair and his, well, his "business" to pick up.) All that aside, I am thoroughly happy to tend to my garden. There is something quite gratifying about seeing those little green shoots poke their way up out of my plot's blank canvas. Even more satisfying is skipping back into the kitchen with a bowl full of my very own lettuce for that evening's salad. Lettuce I didn't have to pay for. Lettuce I didn't have to use the car to acquire. Lettuce that I know hasn't been sprayed with anything other than water. And, never mind about the little holes throughout the leaves, I'm happy to share my harvest with a few nighttime critters.

My little "potager" was ticking right along. The lettuce season was drawing to a close as the weather heated up. I was looking forward to my summer produce. Luscious tomatoes, crisp cucumbers and loads of zucchini I'd have to leave on doorsteps of neighbors in the middle of the night because I wouldn't know what to do with it all. And then, dear friend, as I'm sure you can sympathize...a water leak. One of those household maintenance projects that comes at you out of nowhere and scoots itself right to the top of the To Do list and strong arms everything else aside. There sat my precious garden. Right beneath the culprit of the leak...horrors! Over the course of the next few weeks, I watched as my tomato plants bravely stretched out their arms, baring their little yellow flowers and green globes. The zucchini put out its cheery orange blossoms and the cucumber plant decided to climb out and over the side. The beans bailed on the trellis and instead, scampered all over the ground. Meanwhile, a hailstorm of sawdust and debris tumbled down onto my little plants. Men on ladders were climbing up and over them. Mother Nature decided to heat up Portland to an unheard of 106 degrees. (Or 110, or 115 depending on whom you speak with and how much they like to embellish.) Their branches were broken. Their green leaves appeared to be covered with snow. And yet, even at the worst of it, when I could hardly bear to watch, I'd peak out from behind the curtain and somehow they were still there. Growing. Thriving.

I'm happy to report that I reaped my first harvest. Not much I'll admit but still...it's something. I popped the first 5 cherry tomatoes right into my mouth...well, after I gave them a good brushing off. Didn't share nary a one. I wasn't sure what to expect considering that their growing environment had been less than ideal. Ummmm. Sweet. Luscious. Juicy. And, the best part of homegrown tomatoes right off the vine...they were still warm from the sun.

As often happens here in Portland, even in the summer, our warm, morning sun was quickly blotted out by rain clouds, the temperature dropped and what should have been a day full of sprinklers and peals of laughter, became a day that sent everyone indoors, putting on jammies, wool socks and pining away for a nice, fall soup. Usually, I don't make this soup until autumn when the kids are back in school and apples are in season but considering that I had fresh, green beans at my beckon call and the weather had taken a turn...I went ahead. Plus, being a prolific soup maker, I had finally used the gift card my parents had bestowed upon me two years ago for Christmas to buy a brand new soup pot and I was dying to give it a whirl. So, there I stood, happy as a clam, cutting up my onions, green beans, zucchini and carrots while I sipped on a glass of scott paul pinot noir, cuvée Martha Pirrie, in honor of my dear father-in-law (or as the French say and I much prefer, my “beau-pére”) who passed away a year ago this day. I had his favorite Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass song, A Taste of Honey, playing in the background and I contentedly found myself lost in my remembrances of him and surrounded by the warm, swirling smells of sautéed onions.

I set down steaming bowls of my vegetable soup, a plate of Ayers Creek Farm blackberries and yellow peaches, sliced ciabatta bread and remnants of cheese pieces I found in the fridge - goat, brie, a hunk of cheddar - on the worn kitchen table. Within minutes, my children had licked their platters clean and we were nourished and fulfilled by our humble meal. We talked about Grandad. His smile. His quiet laugh. His humming. His love for his grandkids. And, as my sweetie put it, his gratitude for seemingly small things. So, please, if you will, dear friend, raise a glass for Grandad, his genuine gratitude and the pleasure of the harvest no matter how small. No matter how dusty.

Rainy Day Vegetable Soup - Summer Version

Ingredients:

1 tbls olive oil or a couple laps around the pot with the olive oil jug

2 med yellow onions

2 garlic cloves

1 cup carrots, diced

1 cup celery, diced

1 cup green beans, chopped into 1" pieces

2 medium zucchini, diced

2 tsp Herbes de Provence OR 6 sprigs fresh thyme & 2 bay leaves

2 qts chicken broth OR 2 qts vegetable broth for a vegetarian version

1 28-oz can diced tomatoes

1 15-oz can cannellini beans OR any other any other can of white beans you have lying around

2 medium, red- or white-skinned potatoes, cubed

A handful of small pasta - alphabet, orzo, broken spaghetti pieces, etc.

1 tsp salt & 1/2 tsp ground pepper or to taste

Piece of parmesan cheese rind, optional

Pistou, optional:

1 cup fresh basil leaves

2 garlic cloves

1/4 cup grated, parmesan cheese

1/8 to 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/8 cup tomato paste, optional

Directions:

Before you begin, dear friend, please gather up for yourself a glass of your favorite sipping beverage, whether it be the aforementioned pinot noir or a simple cup of mint tea. (Sometimes my choice is tied directly to the noise level in our home.) Put on your favorite, calming, mood music and then, find yourself lost in the repetitive motion of your VERY SHARP knife slicing through the bounty.

Put your pot over low to medium heat to warm-up. Prep your onions to be diced. Swirl the olive oil in your pot and then, dice your onions. I find that doing these tasks in this order results in the perfect timing for heating and dicing. Now, if the thought of dicing an onion makes you literally flee the kitchen, please treat yourself to this 1 minute video How to Chop an Onion or most likely, any other you find on youtube of the same subject. I learned this technique years ago and it has made all the difference. You can apply the same principles to your other dicing needs as well.

Put your diced onion into your pot over medium-low heat. You want your onion to soften and become translucent with just a hint of caramel color but you don't want it to brown or burn. I find that this step, done correctly, is the secret to all delicious soups calling for onion. Stir occasionally. Check your heat to make sure your onions are not browning too quickly.

While your onion is sautéing, dice up your garlic, carrots and celery. Once they are prepped, pour them all into the pot, give them a stir and continue chopping your zucchini and green beans. Put them into the pot. Add the spices or fresh herbs, salt and pepper. Stir. Chop up your potato. At this point, your onions, celery and carrots should be softened and your green beans and zucchini, warmed. Pour your chicken stock and tomatoes into the pot, drop in the optional piece of parmesan cheese rind and bring it all to a boil. Once boiling, add your potatoes, bring back to a boil, then reduce heat and let simmer 20-25 minutes.

While your soup is simmering, you can decide to make the pistou or skip it. I always base my decision on how much time I have, how much energy I have remaining from my daily allotment and whether or not I have any fresh basil laying around. A nice grating of parmesan cheese over this soup does just as nicely as the pistou.

On this day, I decided to make the pistou which is just a fancy way of saying I made a type of paste that you dollop on top of your finished vegetable soup for added flavor dimension. Not having a mortal and pestle, I chopped up the basil and garlic. Then, I took the backside of a serving spoon and mashed up the two ingredients on my cutting board. I added the grated cheese to the pile and continued mashing. Then I just drizzled the olive oil on top. Stirred it all together until it was pasty and had everyone serve themselves the pistou straight from the cutting board. Why dirty another dish?

By this time, the "stomach-growling inducing" aroma filled the kitchen. I washed my blackberries. Sliced my peaches. Pulled some cheese out of the fridge to warm-up to room temperature. My buzzer went off. I added the cannellini beans and the handful of pasta and set the timer for another 10 minutes. By the time my buzzer went off again, I had laid out the bread, cheese, fruit and finagled one of the children innocently passing by the kitchen to pour a round of water for everyone. Before you knew it, we were sitting down to our meal and toasting Grandad.

Now, as with all things worth waiting for - wine, women, types of cheese, soups - this soup is delicious the first day but even better the next day and the next. As the soup ages, flavors co-mingle to give it a certain depth and complexity it lacks when it's so young. So, enjoy it for dinner tonight but appreciate the soup's deeper flavors the following days.

PS: Fish out that cheese rind after the initial cooking. I find that when left in the soup for subsequent days, the cheese flavor over-powers all of the other ingredients and therefore, tuns vegetable soup into a rather disturbing-looking cheese soup. And while you're fishing, you may want to grab the bay leaves and thyme stems. You wouldn't want to accidentally choke those down.

Yield: Enough for a family of 5, plus leftovers for lunch the next day.

Originally written: August 12, 2009

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Portland Farmer's Market

In the land of 10,000 Mothers, milk and honey flow without end,

Nobody goes away wanting. You are welcome wherever you've been.

The Land of 10,000 Mothers, by Cosy Sheridan.

Deep in the throws of winter, when the gray sky has become so oppressive I can hardly stop myself from going mad, one of the few glimmers of light that keeps me going is knowing that the first weekend of April is coming. That glorious weekend when the Portland Farmer's Market dusts off its tables, throws open its shutters and welcomes the citizens of Portland back in for another season of "food, glorious food."

Oh, I know. I read the article in the Wall Street Journal. The one debating the merits of farmer's markets and the concept behind being a "locavore." I'm not here to debate them myself. And, yes, I agree that perhaps these questions need to be raised; however, I also believe that some people are contrary just for the sake of being contrary. I scanned the comments and was thrilled to see one fellow write back, "You've missed the whole point of being a locavore. Local food simply tastes better." And isn't that the whole point? Why eat a mealy, pale pink, tasteless tomato that's traveled thousands of miles in the dead of winter when you can wait a few months and eat a bright red, sweet one from the next town over? You may go back for seconds. Seconds for something that tastes incredible and is nourishing no less.

Arriving at the Portland Farmer's Market today, only an hour or so before closing, my daughter and I strolled under the canopy of decades old trees and headed right for the food carts. We were starving. I scanned the options. Fresh biscuits. Crêpes - both savory and sweet. Hot tamales. Grilled sausage sandwiches. Wood-fired bagels. Finally deciding on Thai Yellow Curry from Zuppa, I carried my fragrant bowl of brown rice topped with a beautiful pale yellow broth, bright orange chunks of sweet potatoes, a spoonful of mango chutney and a sprinkle of cilantro over to a table. As I awaited the arrival of my daughter and enjoyed every spoonful of my delicious lunch, I was treated to the bluegrass sounds of the Misty Mamas. Bliss.

One thing you should know about me, dear friend, is that...well...um...okay, here it is, I love to polka. I can sniff out polka music a mile away. I can anticipate the playing of a great polka dancing song. Be warned the innocent person who takes me to an Oktoberfest celebration. Like a horse headed for the barn, there I am making a beeline for the dance floor in anticipation of the Chicken Dance. I can't help it. It's such happy music and who doesn't love the feeling of being twirled around a dance floor in another's arms? And so, there I was, practically having to tie myself down to my chair to avoid embarrassing my "almost" teenage daughter, as the Misty Mamas struck up, Polka on the Banjo. Luckily for her, by the time she was seated, berry crêpe safely in hand, the had moved onto, The Land of 10,000 Mothers.

There we sat, the two of us, silently eating our food, lost in our thoughts, listening to music and gazing around at the people. The ever-present tap dancer on his 16x16 inch wooden dance floor. The elderly gentleman on the scooter offering to draw your portrait. The college-age kid in the pale green linen pants and matching tunic finished off with a knitted gold and maroon scarf around his neck. The mother down from the Heights in her Seven jeans, her fancy sandals and her white slouch bag on her arm. The darling preschooler with the cotton ball puff of milk chocolate colored hair dancing to the music. The teenage girl, daring you to look at her mohawk, styled with long spikes, Statue of Liberty style, running front to back. And of course, the balloon man who was having a tough day at work as his balloons continued to pop prematurely.

We were quickly ushered out of our thoughts and back to the present by the very real fact that the market was closing soon. We rushed around to gather a few of our favorites. Purple artichokes from DeNoble's farm in Tillamook. Some brilliant, red tomatoes. A 1/2 flat of strawberries and matching flat of blueberries. A handful of shitake mushrooms. And, of course, a baker's dozen of bite-sized treats from Two Tarts to sweetly satisfy our soul. Carrying our load back to the car, past the beautifully restored Simon Benson house and the classic architecture of Lincoln Hall, I was struck by the thought, "Maybe food isn't even the top reason for visiting a Farmer's Market. Maybe it's simply the catalyst for so much more. Maybe."

Originally written: August 8, 2009

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

"Do-It-Yourself" Granola

You have appeared to my life,

Feel like I'll never be the same.

Like a Star by Corinne Bailey Rae

With a great whoosh of air, I watch as the navy and white striped sheet flutters to the ground. For a brief moment, I am transported back to its glory days. Back to the first apartment I shared with my sweetie where this simple sheet rested prominently on our bed. The same apartment where our cat, Bruce, a mere kitten at the time decided to skydive off our third floor balcony without a parachute, quickly using up one of his lives. The same apartment where I decided to can salsa for Christmas gifts, using a recipe I'd never tried nor had I bothered to really taste during the creating. The salsa did not become a tradition. Perhaps it was the Worcestershire sauce.

Another gust of air and this time it's a Florentine marbled design in peaches, soft blues and pale pink. I can see the bed in my college room where this sheet started out, fresh and new. I can see it in its final place of honor. A guest bed. Twin. Of the Bedknobs and Broomstick variety. The guest room in that little walk-up in Noe Valley. The very place where I threw a 30th Birthday party for my sweetie while simultaneously suffering from the flu. The same party that included a particularly distinguished guest, that being the chef and owner of our San Francisco neighborhood's very own Italian restaurant. When a metallic smell started emanating from the oven, it was he who discovered that I had failed to remove the plastic protector from underneath my brand new pizza stones before using them. He quickly pulled the noxious pizzas from the oven as a trail of hot plastic oozed behind him like pulled taffy.

A flash of pink and white check and it's my daughter's first bedroom. Ballet pink. Baby dolls and handmade cradles. Dress-up clothes and a kitchen. Fish sticks, peas and applesauce. The swath of material softly falls to the ground and takes up its place next to the others. Together they make up my painting quilt, of sorts, protecting the floor as I rhythmically cover up the ballet pink with each stroke of the brush.

I know that at some point in your 30s, there is a bridge that is crossed. The one where you leave your painting days behind and instead, hire out that sort of job but let me say a few words in favor of "do-it-yourself" painting. For starters, it's cathartic. Relaxing. The mesmerizing sound of the brush against the wall. And, painting is very deliberate. It can't be rushed. You have to slow down. Be careful. Don't splatter. You find yourself left alone with your thoughts. Painting gives you a moment to pause. To consider that the daughter who once wrapped herself in every shade of pink imaginable is no longer that little girl. No, she is somewhere between the woman she will become and the adolescent that she is. And with each stroke of the brush you recognize that she is growing up. Her walls are becoming a creamy white. And while there is some tug at your heart, knowing that the little girl will never be again, you can't help but be excited for what lay ahead. With each passing day, you are able to shed little bits of your role as parent. Knowing that one day, should you do your job well, you will shed enough of the parent role, to be her friend. And so, you say good-bye to the ballet pink and the subtle chain of daisies you stenciled round the room all those years ago.

I pick-up my cup of hot, chamomile/mint tea. I gaze outside at the gray skies and 64-degree weather. Not an uncommon summer day in Portland but one that my "Phoenix-habitating" brother would consider to be straight out of mid-winter. I reach down to the ramekin of granola I've been munching on all morning. I can't think of a more delightful painting snack. Oats, bits of almonds & walnuts, raisins, cinnamon, a pinch of salt and a dollop of maple syrup all roasted to perfection. And, I pause to consider that while I had been taping off the trim in the early morning hours, my almost teenage daughter had been roasting up this delectable concoction. The very one that I munch on now. And there's another reason to be in favor of "do-it-yourself" painting. When you tell the kids that you will be unavailable for the day due to the painting project. That they will be in charge of their own snacks. Their own meals. And that they will make sure the baby gets fed. They take you seriously. And you become the happy benefactor of their independent ways.

The sky has grown dark. The granola's long since gone. I gaze around at my work. The pink has disappeared. "Not bad." The creamy white my daughter picked out looks fresh. New. I turn out the light, wrap my hands around my cup of tea and head down the hallway.

"Do-It-Yourself" Granola

(Adapted from Elle's Nutty Granola, Foodnetwork.com)

3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats (I prefer Bob's Red Mill)

1/2 cup walnuts

1/2 cup almonds

1/4 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp salt

1/2 cup real maple syrup

1/2 cup raisins

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees. Mix all of the ingredients together in a large mixing bowl. Spray a cookie sheet with cooking spray or as my daughter did, just rub a little butter over it. Pour the granola mixture onto the sheet and spread it out evenly. Roast in the oven for 30 minutes. Smell, taste, enjoy.

Originally written: August 7, 2009

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

At the beginning...Hood strawberries

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have in my possession a half-flat of sweet, fragile, succulent little red dynamos. One hand grips the outside of the box while the other side of the box rests precariously against my waist. The waist that I am sticking out as if with child, so desperate I am not to spill my precious load. My other hand, my free hand, is not really free at all. It is laden down with other purchases - a pound of slender yet crisp French green beans, shitake mushrooms I plan to sauté up later with a bit of butter and a sprinkling of sea salt, a large, bulbous spring onion that will probably find its way into a soup and of course, a baker's dozen of bite sized treats from Two Tarts. The smell from the flat is heady, intoxicating. Steadying myself, I glance around quickly. A second's worth of panic ripples through my body until I have laid eyes on each child. Okay, they are here. They were not swallowed up by the crowd. Without a free hand to hold another's, I hear myself calling out, "Careful." "Watch for cars." "Stay by Mommy." "Can one of you hold his hand?" The farther we get from the farmer's market, the more the throngs have dissipated. I can relax a bit. The excitement of my purchase growing. I can't wait to get home.

While some couples choose to spend their alone time hitting flea markets or independent film releases, my sweetie and I go to farmer's markets and grocery stores. Instead of Sunday drives, we drag our children around to see food. Smell food. Taste food. When we hit the road, whether here or abroad, the first place we visit is the local grocery store or an outdoor market, should we be so lucky to find one. We can't wait to see what they have to offer in that little corner of the world. The dazzling colors and cornucopia of scents puts us on a high that you can liken to a preschooler on Christmas morning. On a recent trip to that grand dame of cities, Paris, I dragged my hot, tired (in need of a bathroom) children to the Marché du Président Wilson. I simply had to see Joël Thiébault’s infamous Cœur de Bœuf tomatoes in person. I did not buy any, though, as I had no way of carrying the large orbs so as to prevent their delicate skin from splitting as we traipsed around the city. Just seeing them and smelling them was enough.

Safely to the car, I herd the children into our mode of transportation. I take one last glance at the purchases I’ve laid in the back, hoping they won’t spill. I drive off slow and steady. The warm, sweet smell immediately fills the whole of the car silencing everyone in a sort of reverence as we make our way home.

I have had it in my head for quite some time this idea that we're on the cusp of a food revolution. Although, revolution is quite a loaded word. Maybe it should be referred to as a food epiphany. A food revelation. A food manifesto, perhaps. I believe that everyone, at some level, realizes that our current relationship with food is toxic. Unhealthy. Just plain bad. But I can feel it. Smell it even. The tide is turning and personally, I find it fascinating. Thrilling even, to be here "rediscovering" what brought us together in the first place. Us and food. Back to the beginning of our relationship when it wasn't so cluttered with words like, hormones and transfat and antioxidants. When it was simply, "Pick. Eat. Enjoy."

Some celebrate the first day of yachting season, baseball season, the holiday season...my sweetie sends me text messages with photos attached to announce the opening of Hood season. Hood, as in, Hood strawberries. Those tiny little bundles of flavor whose early summer season is ever so fleeting. Those luscious, finger-staining berries grown clinging to vines up, down and around the arch created by the Willamette Valley and the Columbia Gorge. For three or four weeks, we buy them by the flat and promptly devour them. Every year we say we're going to buy extras and freeze them. A way to enjoy a little of summer in the depths of winter but somehow they never make it into the freezer.

I pull into the driveway. The children hop out and scatter. Anxiously walking around to the back, I flip open the trunk and pull out the precious, undisturbed berries. I holler out to my sweetie, "We're home!" I carefully place the load on the counter. Phew! My arms are weary but the berries are safe. Without nary a reference to maltodextrin or calories or any number of omegas, we stand around the flat, pluck off the little green caps, pop the berries into our mouths and swoon. So simple. So unassuming. So uncluttered. And, again, I can feel it. The tide. It's turning.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009