Farm Store

Today my husband and I were driving from Fort Collins back to our home in Denver, with a quick stop to visit my father and stepmother in Loveland. Rather than take the interstate, we elected to drive a more scenic route, at least between Fort Collins and Loveland.

The day was pretty. The sky was still blue, since the inevitable late summer afternoon rainclouds hadn’t yet moved in. The mountains were purple against the blue sky. As we drove along the two-lane road, I spotted a hand-painted sign that said Something from the Farm in black letters accented by rather amateur-looking flowers and flourishes.

“A farm store!” I cried. My very patient husband immediately slowed down the car, knowing full well that we were going to visit the market. He’s learned a few things about me in our 18 years of marriage.

We pull into the narrow gravel driveway, and I see several absolutely beautiful vegetable and flower gardens, colorful and full of plenty. At the end of the driveway was a little wooden structure – the farm store.

We walked in and were greeted by a friendly woman of probably 65 or so, apparently the gardener. She was surrounded by lovely red tomatoes; green and yellow squash; several varieties of onions; bags and bags of bright green beans; red, yellow and green peppers; jars of honey; and stacks of freshed-bake bread and rolls.

Several years ago, my husband and I had the immense privilege of spending three months in Europe, two of those months in what may be my favorite place on earth – Italy. One of the things I love most about Italy is the beautiful fresh produce grown by the Italian people and sold in small markets throughout the country. The Italian gardens are lovely. In the smaller towns and villages, the people will have a little plot of ground right outside their door on which they will grow a variety of vegetables. I used to love to see how their tomatoes grew – supported by three sticks they looped together to make a teepee of sorts.

Even in the bigger cities, such as Rome or Naples, people will have baskets of basil and oregano, tiny lemon trees, and buckets of cherry tomatoes growing right on their balconies or doorsteps.

I was reminded of Italy today in the farmer’s market. It made me very happy.

I looked around, however, and couldn’t see hide nor hair of the one thing I particularly wanted – sweet corn. The peaches and cream sweet corn produced by the Colorado farmers about this time of year is scrumptious, but nowhere to be seen in this store. So I asked the woman if she had any sweet corn. She walked over to a large table that had wet towels thrown over a pile of something I couldn’t see. She lifted up the wet towels to show me piles of delicious corn.

“I keep them damp so that they retain the best flavor,” she explained. Well, of course you do.

So I bought a half dozen ears of corn, a bag of green beans that I’m going to cook with a ham hock and some small red potatoes tomorrow for dinner, and a loaf of still warm-to-the-touch Swedish rye bread. Tonight we feast.

By the way, you would think that since I so love fresh produce that I would garden myself. Here’s the rub: Gardening is one of those things that I want to like to do, but simply do not. My knees hurt if I kneel too long on the ground. I hate pulling weeds. I heartily dislike any kind of garden pest. So after several years of struggling with a garden, I gave it up.

I’ll support my local farmer’s markets, and let them slap the mosquitos. I’ll enjoy the fruits of their labor.