Eggs Straight from a Cow

When we lived on Pacheco St. in the City, we frequented a Farmer’s Market that set up on Sundays in the parking lot of the Stonestown shopping mall. In season, the market covers some serious ground with hundreds of vendors selling everything from organic produce to flowers to baked goods and beyond. Live music was usually featured with places to sit and enjoy coffee with deep-fried, sugar-encrusted goodies.

Late summer was prime time at the market with an overload of fresh fruits and vegetables. Heirloom tomatoes were a main attraction. Beginning in late July we were spoiled by the most tomato-est of tomatoes for a couple of months. Larger tomatoes could be found in every possible shape and color, some resembling Dr. Seuss creations after the author had one too many Manhattans and a Xanax. But the smaller organic cherry tomatoes were the best--like little bombs of tomato flavor. Walking through the stalls, over a dozen farms offered these diminutive gems. I remember standing next to a tiny elderly Chinese woman who was inspecting every single tiny tomato before placing it in her shopping bag. I simply scooped up several handfuls and filled my bag in seconds. She probably thought I was a rash barbarian. No doubt she was right. 

My very favorite memories of the market are from that very narrow window of time in late July and early August when the stone fruit was also in season. Then the Masumoto family and their farm in the Central Valley reigned supreme. Their peaches, apricots, and nectarines are world-renown. I’d stand in their large stall marveling at the wealth of different kinds of stone fruit before choosing a few peaches, nectarines, and apricots. A bite of one of their peaches is indescribable--probably like eating perfectly ripe fruit while on controlled substances. Or so I’m told. The only other time I’ve had fruit so delicious was in Taiwan when the small pink mangos were in season.

There was a particular incident at the Masumoto stand one Sunday morning. Business was brisk as always and the line of happy stone fruiters waiting to pay was long. A short Russian woman wearing a leopard print overcoat and her young son were in front of me in line. She was holding a bag with several bright yellow-orange peaches. When it was her to pay, she dumped a pile of loose change on the counter in front of the cashier guy. He looked at her in mild disbelief, repeated the price, and then asked her to count the change and give him the correct amount. She responded in Russian, feigning not being able to speak English.

I have to stop for a moment and note something about the culture of farmer’s markets. It’s a culture that probably dates back to Medieval fairs, perhaps earlier. Part of that culture is a set of unspoken laws concerning the behavior of customers towards vendors and when, and even if, it’s appropriate to haggle on price. Moving on.

In seconds, the Russian woman was busted. “Hey, I heard you speaking English to your kid a few minutes ago,” a woman behind me said. “Yeah, I did too,” another guy said. The Russian woman turned around and grimaced at her accusers, muttering something under her breath. Then cashier guy politely asked her again to count her change and pay the required amount for the bag of peaches. “That’s all I got,” she said in a thick accent. Within seconds, outrage erupted in the ranks. At least half a dozen people in line told her in multiple ways to shut up, pay up, and/or leave. She responded by snapping up her pile of change and dumping the bag of peaches in front of cashier guy. She then grabbed her son’s hand and pushed her way through the small but now almost unruly crowd that had been an orderly que just moments before.

Farmer’s market justice had been dealt swiftly and effectively. But the woman had the last word. Just as she left the stall, she turned to us and shouted something that must surely have been an insult or a curse. Then she gave us the finger before storming off, dragging her son behind. We, the righteous shoppers, responded by being overly polite to cashier guy. When it was my turn to pay, I apologized for her rude behavior. He chuckled and said, “thanks, I’ve seen worse.”

Here in Rio Rancho, fall means the farmer’s market in nearby Corrales is in full swing on Sunday mornings. And that’s a wonderful thing. My wife Carla often goes and brings home fresh-baked green chile sourdough bread, small crunchy cukes, and those tiny cherry tomato bombs as they’re available. And she also brings the most amazing fresh eggs with yolks so bright yellow in color they don’t look real. Maybe they’re straight from a cow. There’s nothing better.