A Two Market Town

Last Saturday we went to, not one, but two tailgate farmers markets. It must be spring in Asheville.

I still recall the days when I was living in Manhattan and the farmer's market meant a Sunday stroll through Union Square to purchase an oversized sticky bun. To me, the market was just like one of the ubiquitous fairs that fill the streets of Manhattan on weekends, except instead of curly fries and the ASPCA van hawking dogs and kittens for adoption it offered only vegetable and flower stands. Pretty, but I hadn't yet acquired an organic-local-small farmer consciousness, so I wasn't there to shop. It was, in my defense, the early '90's, and I didn't have Michael Pollan to point out the error of my ways. Or Hubby, who I'll admit is the one who reads the Michael Pollan books in our house and then passes the pertinent bits on to me.

We did have farmers markets when we lived in West Hollywood and Long Beach as well. But they weren't nearly the community affairs they feel like here. Stands pushed side-by-side in parking lots, they often required a lot of elbowing and skillful maneuvering around the kettle corn vendor, who seemed to attract the biggest crowds. Organic produce was surprisingly difficult to come by, and really no cheaper than what was available at Wild Oats. Or maybe I just told myself that.

Here in Asheville, however, we take our farmers markets seriously. You know the vendors grew the produce themselves, offering the opportunity either for a friendly chat or a dicey eyes-averted duck-and-bob as you head for more promising vegetal wares. The musician strumming a guitar and singing folk songs is far from polished and frequently just a little bit off key. Dogs are allowed to wander through with their owners, making me misty eyed for my baby Roxanne, who regularly saw her efforts to investigate the West Hollywood farmers market thwarted. (Our current dogs are not among those wandering the Asheville farmers market because Audrey doesn't know how to be polite to other dogs, which sometimes makes me miss Roxanne even more.)

We were particularly excited for last Saturday's market-going. Although the tailgate near us -- on the UNC Asheville campus -- professes to be year-round, it dwindled considerably by November. We returned once in December to buy a pristine Christmas tree, but there wasn't much edible to purchase, unless you count decorative gourds.

By then we were on a waiting list for a CSA -- Community Supported Agriculture. A new concept to me, CSA's are more or less like a co-op; you pay a flat fee up front and, come spring, the growers divvy up a portion of their produce among the CSA members. Every week you pick up your box of goodies and start cooking. The one to which we applied included an option to receive fresh flowers weekly (we signed up) and to lower the cost by volunteering hours working on the farm (we used The Boy as an excuse to decline).

Notice that we had to apply for the CSA. It even took some work just to find one who'd let us do that. Apparently, if you plan to own a small farm, you'd best do it in Western Carolina. Because we Ashevilleans are lining up for your offerings. So many of us, in fact, that a month ago I received the sad news that our one CSA hope was, yep, full.

I can't say I was too upset about that on Saturday morning. While we pretended we would have continued the Saturday ritual of strolling to the farmers market even as a CSA member, I tend to doubt the pull would have been nearly as strong if we already had a refrigerator full of produce at home. Plus, it's likely to be a much longer stroll this spring, with The Boy, at 25 pounds, able to walk himself and therefore rather disdainful of his stroller. Even if we could get him in it, I can vouch for the fact that there's little relaxed or fun about pushing 40 plus pounds of baby and stroller up the Asheville hills. Or so I'm reminded every afternoon when The Boy and I return from school.

At any rate, it was threatening rain on this particular Saturday, so the car was an easy choice. Even though there is something just plain wrong about driving your SUV (a crossover! and a Honda!) to the tailgate market so you can righteously purchase locally grown produce.

Turns out even doing that much was a bit of a struggle. The thing about those small local farms -- they tend to grow for the season. And, sun outside my window notwithstanding, the April season yields little in the way of edible produce. Plenty of lovely flowers were available for transplanting, but the gardener in our family didn't seem interested, and I'm not in a position to make backyard suggestions, seeing as I do zero work out there.

We left with a bag of watercress and some sausage from the local animal farm because they didn't have the pork loin Hubby was hoping for. Turns out the sausage wasn't such a great substitute; after an enthusiastic dinner of it on Wednesday night, The Boy spent an hour or so crying and producing some mighty evil-smelling poop. Belatedly, Hubby tasted the sausage and declared it surprisingly spicy. Henceforth, the meat-eating adult in this family will be tasting all animal flesh before I make it available to The Boy's tender toddler tummy.

"What about the downtown market?" I ventured hopefully as we pulled away from the tailgate, a whole morning still stretching before us. The downtown tailgate was new, and I envisioned a busy, festive atmosphere. Apparently my Union Square dilettantish farmers market days aren't entirely in my past.

Satisfied that he had done his best to support the folks at our own little tailgate, Hubby agreed.

The downtown market was in a bigger space, and there were more Ashevilleans wandering about, but if you can't grow produce during April in Western Carolina, then you can't grow produce during April in Western Carolina. It doesn't much matter which tailgate market you belong to.

Still, excited by the sights of neighbors and co-workers and better dog-watching for The Boy, I excitedly scooped up two tubs of goat cheese. Hubby dutifully handed me ten dollars before telling me that we were down to the last of our cash and he was hoping to find a pork loin waiting for him here.

Happily, there was, and he even had enough money to pay for it, with a nickel to spare. Between the meat, the goat cheese, and the dogs, we were all three pretty satisfied.

But not too satisfied to make our next stop Target. Because, like many Ashevilleans, I suspect, we love our community supported agriculture, but we still need to spend a little time under the fluorescent lights of a big, artificial box store to lend some balance to our lives.