Last week I shared a few stories from my journeys to the Northeast—foie gras in Boston, fig pie in Hartford, hanging pots and pans at Lisa and Stephen’s. On our way out of town to begin the stretched-out, four-day road trek back to Texas, my mom and I stopped by a local farm stand and a Big Y grocery store to stock up our cooler.
Figures that I forgot to pull out the camera at the beautiful little farm stand, where we bought no less than 13 ears of Butter and Sugar and Silver Queen corn, three humongous heirloom tomatoes, a couple of pickling cucumbers, and a bushel of peaches.
No doubt about it, them Yankees got us beat by a long shot on the corn front. That stuff is like candy. We obviously had to wait until we got home to cook it up, but it was so darn tempting that my mom pulled out two ears along the way and ate them just like that, in the raw. I had a few bites myself. Not bad at all.
I can’t give it to them on the peaches, though. They were all pretty bland and grainy. We were disappointed. Southern peaches still have my heart.
I thought it was pretty cool that the grocery store we stopped by, which didn’t seem to be too fancy or anything, had a fantastic selection of locally grown produce—corn, eggplant, squash, lettuce, peppers, all kinds of good stuff (pictured). Check out these gorgeous fresh cranberry beans:
I also had a couple of funny “we’re not in Texas anymore” moments (you’d think I would have adjusted by then, but what can I say? You can’t take the Southern out of the girl).
First, I got all excited and a little shocked when I spotted what I thought were bags of prepared masa for tortillas, something I’d come to know as commonplace in Mexico and still see from time to time at the Fiesta mart at home. Then I read the label: pizza dough by the pound. DUH, of course! I laughed quietly at myself.
Then, wandering through the aisles, I spotted something else that made me laugh out loud. The lady next to me gave me a confused look, trying to catch what it was I’d gotten such a big kick out of. It was this sign:
It’s a horrible picture, I know. I was too self-conscious with that lady watching me to make too big of a scene. In case you can’t make it out, it’s a few rows of picante sauce, taco sauce, pickled jalapeños, and pre-formed taco shells under the section label “Spanish.” I hate to break it to you, Super Y, but they don’t get down like that in Spain. “Mexican” would have gotten a little closer, but truth is, pretty much every item on those shelves originated right here in the States. My maternal grandparents, themselves from the Northeast, used to refer to my Mexican friends as “Spanish.” I’m not sure what that’s all about, really. But that’s a whole ‘nother rant.
With that, we were off. It was a great little trip. And it’s good to be home.