Local Food, Charm, and Small Town Wonderfulness

All summer I've been wanting to make brined dill pickles.  You know, the kind that sit in a barrel in New York delis just waiting to be chosen to accompany that delicious Reuben sandwich on rye.

So at the local Farmer's Market, I asked several of the farmers for pickling cucumbers.  "Sorry, we don't focus on them", said one.  Another farmer said that they simply weren't worth the trouble, since you have to pick them sometimes twice a day to ensure they don't get too big.

So in desperation I went to the local grocery store, Central Market.  I knew they sold some local produce, and last week they even had boxes and boxes of peaches meant for canning.  A young lady, probably in her late teens or early 20's, was stocking grapes in the produce section, so I asked her about pickling cucumbers.

"We only have what's out on the shelves", was her first answer, and truthfully, the answer I expected from a (probably) low-paid employee of the local grocery store.

"Does no one can their own dill pickles anymore," I asked aloud.

"What size are you looking for", she responded.

So I pulled the package of cellophane wrapped, Canada produced "mini" cucumbers off the shelf to show her.  "About this size" I said.

"We have a farm that we get our cucumbers from - do you want me to pick some for you?"

"Central Market has a farm?" I asked.

"Yes, we have 40 acres 2 1/2 miles outside of Frazee."

"And you would personally go to this farm and pick the right size cucumbers for me?"

"Sure - how many do you want?"

"Wait, I want to make sure I understand.  You, the underpaid, teenage, employee of this store, will personally pick the cucumbers I need?"

Okay, I didn't say that exactly, but it's what I thought.  I asked for a bushel, and she said that she'd have them waiting for me in the back room on Wednesday.  We'd figure out the price when I picked them up.

So I offered her some free marketing advice.  Underneath some of the produce there was a small sign that said "home grown", indicating that it came from a local farm.  I knew that some local food was sold here simply from the fact of how it looked - not so perfect, a little dirtier than the mass-produced stuff on the shelves.

"What if you really advertised your local food.  Home grown could mean that it was grown in California.  Locally Grown is the key word to getting our attention, and it should be in big letters on the bins.  Better yet, a whole section of local grown produce to draw people in."

I figure the natives roll their eyes at me when I talk like this.  Local food isn't anything new here; it's just the same as it has been for a hundred years.  But a big population of Detroit Lakes in the summer months come from cities where our tomatoes are shiny and full of ethylene gas, which makes them look fabulous.  And they taste like sawdust.  And our cucumbers come shrink wrapped in packages.  And rhubarb is something people of heard of, but never eaten.

And our pickles come from Clausen, not from our kitchen.

For Winter Blues - Meditation on Summer

As always, summer is passing in a blur of sunshine, food, family, and fun.  We can always count on the lake water being warm enough to swim in around the 4th of July, and so we've been taking advantage of that fact.  Yesterday much of the lake was smooth and shiny and just begging for us to get in.

We're so used to our boating routine that we sometimes forget how cool we are, until someone new comes along to remind us.  Our new friend Bianca came out with us yesterday.  Bianca has been living in the U.S. for about 4 years, but is from the Netherlands.  Our "typical day on the boat" consists of slowing motoring along the shoreline oohing and aahing at the homes we'd someday like to own, followed by burgers and/or brats on the grill.  When it gets too hot we jump in the water to cool off.  And a special treat is to wash our hair in the lake to get the kind of shiny softness you just can't get from city water.

Sometimes, in the dead of winter, I pull out my summer memories as almost a meditation exercise.  I'll close my eyes and recall floating on my back in the lake, or standing near the shore letting the sunfish nibble on my toes and ankles.  Or just laying back on the boat with my face to the sun, where there are no bills to pay, no work to accomplish, and nothing to think about except the gratitude felt when a perfect day presents itself.

And even when it rains we manage to have fun!  Last night the showers rolled in, so a campfire was out.  Instead, we played cards at the kitchen table, ate Swedish Fish, and laughed until midnight.