A spark, a mission, a plum, a crumb
The euphoria of a well-used stone fruit
The last time we met here, I told you I’d be back “soon.” That was 20 days ago. Oops! But doesn’t a little distance make the heart grow fonder?
Here’s the third of my four-post Substack farewell tour. I don’t know when the fourth post will be ready. It all depends on the … well, I almost just said too much.
The move back to New York and especially the availability of quality seasonal produce jump-started my desire to cook, which had been withering on the vine under the Florida summer sun.
We unloaded the U-Haul on a Sunday and, as we were off work, spent the next three days unpacking, arranging and rearranging before we finally moved in. We stayed with Keeley’s parents in Lockport in the meantime. Each morning, we made the 40-minute or so drive to our place in the Elmwood Village, put in a day’s work, then made the drive back. (Thanks to Keeley’s dad for putting in a ton of labor, and Keeley’s mom for babysitting.)
On one of those evenings, we stopped by Niagara Produce at the end of Millersport to pick up some snacks for Augie. It was my first brush with what dominated my mind for the following few weeks.
The sliding doors of the store opened and revealed bushels stacked on bushels of fresh local peaches and apples of all varieties. A few steps to their right was a bounty of produce that had been picked within mere miles of where we stood.
Corn!
Green beans!
Pears!
Plums!
Onions!
Garlic!
Peppers!
Grapes!
And the tomatoes. Oh, god! The tomatoes!
With the next few days spoken for, I settled on a jug of New York maple syrup and a six-pack of a Buffalo IPA. That night, though I was desperately tired, I laid in bed thinking about recipes.
By the weekend, we had moved in and were already meandering around our neighborhood to see what treasures we could stumble upon. We didn’t have to stumble far.
A Saturday morning walk led us to a weekly farmer’s market. Keeley’s brother had told us about it but still, we stood there marveling at our luck. Including a visit to the Lexington Co-op, we came home with local peaches, cherry tomatoes, flowers and a delightful pickle on a stick (though the latter was devoured and within our bellies by then).
The peaches proved to be a good base for many things: a salad with spinach and feta, sliced up and alternated with tomatoes drizzled with homemade vinaigrette, and plain, the juices dripping down over our wrists.
At the co-op, a quart of plums had caught my eye, and I soon returned to buy a few dozen of them. They were soft and ripe; their pits removed with little resistance. I baked them into a torte using the classic New York Times recipe.
The first bite sent me spinning around the kitchen in euphoria. It’s difficult to make a recipe that starts with sugar and butter taste bad, but the fresh fruit added a layer of pleasure that out-of-season grocery store plums could never deliver.
I think I love it here.
Au revoir.
Now move 20 miles NE and come ALL the way Home