The Locavore's Curse

One of the things about my conversion to gardening: I know what’s in season here, when. To the minute. I know when beets are likely to be turning woody, know when to expect the first real tomatoes. At the moment asparagus and strawberries are just past peak (we’ve had a good hot week), but it will be a while before the first tomatoes harvested locally hit the stands. Chard, bombproof as always, is a good intermediary. I am harvesting the last of the crucifers. Next week, the onions will start to flower, and will be pulled up. I haven’t planted enough to last all summer — but the leeks are starting to flower now, and I’m hoping to use them first. The garlic is drying: this, we will have for all of the summer and most of the winter.

We went this afternoon to the Maxfield Parrish show at the Crocker Museum of Art. We’re members, so are able to put in a quick fifteen minutes without guilt. Today, though, there was a reception to launch the Parrish show. We decided to attend.

There were strawberries, to be sure. But there were no asparagus. There was pineapple, probably from Hawaii; melons and canteloupes, probably from Mexico or Colombia; grapes, probably from Chile; green peppers, probably also from Mexico (we still have a few frozen bags from last summer’s crop, but these were “fresh”). The carrots were probably local (but who knows?). Oh: and tomatoes. Cherry and grape tomatoes. From where? Blackberries and raspberries: from where? Or when?

I find I am cooking more with the seasons, using what’s available now. Our fridge is full of beets. They will be over soon, meaning I can dig up that bed and put something else in. Something other than beans, cucurbits, or tomatoes, because I am taking up inordinate acreage with those outside my original bunny fence…