Friday, August 29, 2008
Proof I live in California
One of the reasons I knew that Dallas was not the town for me was its "farmers' market". Their market that had nothing to do with farmers, or organic farming or the slow food movement and everything to with two of the most revered local attributes: plentiful parking and air conditioning.
I sound pissy. But I just never figured why their strawberries came in a pack stamped by Driscolls.
And fine if you want to argue that strawberries don't grow in North Texas. They could have sold me some peaches, pecans or freakin' locally smoked catfish. Something that was produced in the central time zone. Please.
Alameda rocks a twice weekly traditional farmers' market. And the SF market is the bar to which all others aspire. I can't wait to check out Berkeley's.
But lest you think I've got it so good. Having an abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables comes at a cost.
Behold my friend - the fruit fly. That's my handy dandy fruit fly trap. Death by cheap wine. Albeit locally produced, organically grown cheap wine.