A Locavore's Dilemma

Despite the buildup that began sometime this August, the holidays have snuck up on us yet again. Even with the sales, decorating and songs that arrive earlier every year, I am never adequately prepared. This year, I was particularly surprised by the intensity of the holiday season when I went out to gather supplies for our first Thanksgiving as hosts here in Elkridge.

In an attempt to be more sustainable, locally oriented eaters, my wife and I have frequented a few area farmers' markets. Our favorite, by far, has been the Baltimore Farmers' Market, delightfully located under an I-83 overpass (free shade and ambient noise!). It has the best selection of both products and mid-shopping snacks. (Quick recommendations: the wife goes for the fruit-filled crepes, I enjoy the Cajun egg and sausage sandwiches.) What better time than Thanksgiving, we thought, to impress visiting relatives with our area's foodstuffs?

Unfortunately, no one told us that the Sunday before Thanksgiving was one of the busiest at an always busy market. (Whether we should have been able to figure this out on our own is another matter entirely.) The dilemma: maneuver a stroller carrying a squirmy toddler through teeming crowds of locavores determined to get the best pickings while simultaneously making our own selections and preserving life and limb.    

First stop was Lewis Orchards for apples that were destined for a pie, tart, stuffing and yam dish. A proper selection of apples was, therefore, critical to a large percentage of our Thankgiving success. The only thing that stood between me and a bagful of unbruised apples was…about 30 people determined to examine every piece of fruit before committing to one. I could ill afford such patience. Having an "active" 18-month-old with you provides a timer of sorts for any activity. As a parent, you instinctively develop an internal stopwatch that lets you know when a meltdown is imminent. It's a bit like the play clock in football—a good quarterback can sense that time is running out and quick snap a play. As my timer wound down, I called a handoff to my wife for a carry of the boy to a change of scenery. This freed me up to sneak in, grab half a bushel and go.

We reunited for a cruise down what I call "vegetable alley," a long row of vendors with produce not normally seen on your average grocery store shelf: Romanesco (fractal) broccoli, purple cauliflower and others. We were on the hunt for brussels sprouts and fresh herbs. (Not a fan of the brussels? Try a recipe like this to convert any nonbeliever.) With our play clock reset, we were able to make a pretty quick blitz down the row, grabbing what we could through the holiday-focused crowd. There is a certain maniacal gleam that comes to some holiday shoppers' eyes that lets you know, in no uncertain terms, to avoid getting in their way. I am no Black Friday warrior, and it seemed like farmers' market Sunday might be used as a kind of preseason scrimmage for those who are. After getting jostled away from a bin of squash for the umpteenth time, I wondered if the combination of holiday frenzy and foodie-type insistence on evaluating every morsel before purchase created a "perfect storm" of consumer confrontation.     

Our final stop took us to a local turkey farmer. I feel much better knowing whence my turkey came, rather than trusting the industrial food production supply chain. The farmers' market allowed me to look into the eye of my turkey's steward, and the bird came packed with some cooking tips from the farmer's wife. My wife, however, was a bit unsettled by our proximity to a process that we generally ignore. She preferred a level of anonymity between herself and those responsible for the dirty details of protein production. Her fears would melt away a few days later, once we discovered how much better a fresh turkey tasted. Back in line, however, the clock finally expired on the boy's patience; fun time in the stroller was over and the meltdown was on.

Quickly, the denizens of the market jumped to our aid. The woman in front of us turned to entertain the boy while my wife and I furiously dumped our previous purchases into the cargo hold of the stroller. A passerby suggested he might like a singer playing just down the row. My wife remained in the turkey line while I hustled the boy down to see if we could gain a little more time with a new attraction. (After all, listening and dancing to music is…awesome!) Not only was the boy enthralled the moment he saw the musician, but the guitarist, quickly recognizing a new demographic, launched into "The Rainbow Connection." A one-man toddler dance party erupted, attracting an appreciative crowd. The help and humor I saw in response to our little crisis made me rethink my opinion of the holiday marketplace scene.

Perhaps I had been too quick to judge. After all, everyone there was on the same mission I was: to get some good food for our families. Sure, it was crowded and a little crazy, but maybe that classic holiday spirit really was present. We left laden with local purchases and buoyed by the knowledge that, perhaps, even in the worst of shopping circumstances, there is hope to be had.