Gabriela Lambert

I just realized that the last two articles I have written for Simple Good and Tasty have been about tomatoes. No one would blame you for thinking I was a tad preoccupied, maybe even obsessed with that sweet, juicy, toothsome, perfect, smart, funny, talented, handsome (ahem, excuse me) fruit. I certainly wouldn’t. In fact, I’m going to complete the trifecta of tomato obsession today with this post. Once you have had your fill of Spicy Moroccan-Inspired Gazpacho and Tomato Panzanella, you will need to turn your attention to the upcoming months and think about what you’re going to do about getting your tomato fix once the snow flies.

I don’t even want to say it out loud, for fear it will come true, but does any one else feel like summer is... gulp... over? These dreary days, these gusty winds, these cool temperatures speak of change, of autumn, of... double gulp... winter. Mother Nature has decided that this year, she’s going with the rip-off-the-band-aid approach to seasonal change and she’s not messing around.

Before I begin, I ask a moment of your indulgence. Picture me, if you will, walking around my office, proud puff pigeon-chested, handing out cigars to my colleagues, grinning from ear to ear and flashing the picture you see above to anyone who will stand still long enough to look.

Okay, I didn't really do that, but only because I don't have an office to go to. So you'll have to stand in for my hapless co-workers. Ain’t she a beauty? That pretty girl is my first tomato of the season and not only is she gorgeous to look at (do you see those striations of yellow? that smooth orange skin? that shape, my goodness, that shape?), she was gorgeous to eat. Cut cross-wise to reveal flower shaped rounds, I ate her all by myself with nothing but a dusting of sea salt. Divine.

It’s corn time, people! Sweet, sweet corn time. A couple weeks ago when I spotted the Peter’s Pumpkins and Carmen’s Corn stand at the Kingfield Farmers Market, I gasped and shimmied over as quickly as my flip flops would carry me. I snatched up six ears and to my surprise, received a gentle admonition from the owner, Peter Marshall, as he handed it to me: “Now this is good and sweet, but it’s not as good and sweet as it will be in a few weeks.” I’m not sure why I was surprised. I ought to know by now that Mother Nature takes her own sweet time and does things her own sweet way, with little regard for urban corn fiends like me.

I’m still a paper calendar kind of a gal.

You know that feeling, when you’ve been with someone a long time and you feel like you know every thing about them. You know every story, every place they lived, every band they loved, but then out of the blue, maybe at a party, maybe while you’re weeding the garden or drinking coffee, you hear a story you’ve never heard before. And in that split second, your eyes open wide and you feel ever so slight a sensation of frisson at the novelty, the mystery, the possibility.

Well, I’ve been with vegetables a long time – ever since I can remember, really. At this point, I thought I had tried every one, every which way. I thought I knew all of their seasons, all of their stories. But I was wrong. Oh, was I ever wrong. Last week at the Kingfield Farmers Market, I came upon a basket of bright green tangles that stopped me in my tracks.

McDonalds, Burger King, Hardee’s, Subway, Arby’s, TCBY, Taco Bell, Sbarro. Anything sound good? Didn’t think so. When a family hits the open road in the U.S. of A. and the excitement of the first few hours of tunes, wind, and unfurling pavement has worn off to be replaced by boredom and hunger, it will have little choice but to pull into an oasis to eat. Unfortunately, our oases give oases a bad name. Far from a place to relax and replenish, our U.S. highways seem to be lined with not much more than loud flushing toilets and purveyors of junk food. I always fantasize about the small, family-run diners tucked into the towns we roll by; but realistically, when you have three kids and seven hours of driving ahead of you, there is no extra time to dilly dally in search of homemade chicken soup and apple pie.

Here in Minnesota, our farmers markets have been up and running for a few weeks now, and even though we may be behind other parts of the country in terms of what’s available because of our loooooong winters, it is exactly those loooooong winters that cause people like me (and you, I would guess) to get a little breathless and grabby at the sight of a bundle of fresh, green, locally grown anything.

In the absence of more colorful splashy things like berries, tomatoes, and stone fruit, the myriad greens and slightly purple characters we’re seeing now get to take center stage for some well deserved adulation. Baby lettuces, asparagus, rhubarb, ramps, scallions and radishes are all getting to strut their stuff and I, for one, am riveted.

When I was asked whether I was interested in doing a profile on “local legend” Jenny Breen, I jumped at the chance. I didn’t know who Jenny was, but with a name like that – so lyrical and fresh – I knew I wanted to meet her. Jenny Breen, Jenny Breen. She sounded like a lass some lovelorn Irishman might sing about. She sounded like a lady who might know her way around a garden, might even wear a tiara made out of snap peas and scallions, carrots and asparagus. Yes, I said. Yes, I would very much like to write a profile on this local legend cooking lady with a crown of veggies.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I hate it when I invent something that’s already been invented. Maybe I’m not very original, or maybe I’m just a classic Johnnie-come-lately, but I seem to have a penchant for coming up with the best best BEST ideas only to be smacked down by the cool unforgiving hand of Google. I won’t get into the specifics of my past inventions, because I’m afraid I’ll start getting a reputation around here, but this last one, the invention that I invented specifically for you... well, we’re just going to have to sit down and talk about this because it really is good, and just because someone else invented it first is no reason to deprive you of my genius.