June in Georgia

"The blueberries have just come in," says Emily G, the jam lady, the first person I see as I enter the farmers' market in my little Georgia town.  I sample and then buy her blueberry "Jam of Love" to spread on my next purchase ..... whole wheat rolls, made with wheat that was kernels just yesterday.  The bread lady, Miss Ruth from Back in Time Breads, shows me a handful of yesterday's grain, today's yummy rolls.  She has the sweetest face I have ever laid eyes on.  If Madison Avenue is looking for the iconic face of fresh home baking, I have found it on Miss Ruth, right down to the smudge of flour on her forehead. 

So there I am like the man lost in the desert, parched and delirious, as I stumble into this locally grown oasis.  I venture on from the blueberries and bread to Phoenix Gardens' stand where they have fresh-made salsa and other sauces ranging from "sweet" to "kick your ass."  I stop there to chat with the husband and wife team, and eat chips and salsa.  Their special recipe is a miracle that revives me.  I make a complete pig of myself, and they smile knowing I will buy several pints before moving on.

Then I load up on fresh-picked strawberries, the last we'll see this season.  They smell so good I just stick my nose right in the middle of the pint and inhale.  I picture Deuce standing at the kitchen sink, washing and eating strawberries one by one til the carton is empty.

I can't resist the fresh collards, so I grab a bunch of them, and some fresh French radishes (first time I had ever even heard of them) to serve along with the fresh-picked (this morning) romaine lettuce.  Miss Farmer encourages me to wash it again; "there might be some little friends in there!"  No, it has not been sitting in a refrigerated truck for a month.

And the broccoli.  My own personal opinion is that no food has greater difference in taste between fresh-off-the-plant and store-bought than broccoli.  It must be a different species.  I buy too much and have to take some to my mother-in-law.  She shares my opinion on broccoli's fresh vs. store-bought chasm.  You say tomato; we say broccoli.

I load all this in my car, and then head back for some flowers.  Just one massive bouquet with dozens of sunflowers, pink lilies and purple gladiolas.  It is worthy of Miss America and only ten dollars.  Lord, I love June in Georgia.

I enter my kitchen, where Ace is prowling like a hungry lion after a day on the Serengeti, or a teenager who has been lifeguarding at the pool all afternoon.  I can't remember the name of the Apple Pie Lady, but next week I'll go back and tell her Ace ate the entire pie as an appetizer, while the collards were simmering.