European Farmers’ Market: Rammelsbach

European Farmers’ Market:  Rammelsbach (Kusel)

I like farmers’ markets anyway and this was a huge one.  Something like 1200 vendors and over 30,000 eaters, drinkers, music lovers and shoppers came to sample fare from all over the Euro-world.  As in every other fest I’ve visited in Germany, this was orderly, friendly, and wonderful.  No fights.  No drunks.  No police presence.  Just happy people, including an abundance of families who came to enjoy a beautifully sunny day, with temps in the mid 80s.

We got there about 2 p.m. and the party was in full swing.  Matter of fact, as we learned, the Champagne stall had already sold out.  So, we settled for a very excellent Sicilian white wine and some Finnish planked salmon and coleslaw.  The planked salmon, pink and juicy, was roasted close by a wood fire.

Near by, a Hungarian stringed trio brought the sweet sounds of their homeland, while not too far away, in huge tent, a German oompah band serenaded hundreds of beer swillers.

All that music competing for your ear?  No.  Not at all.  The market was that large, sprawling though the old city streets and diverging down side streets before trailing into the nearby countryside.  Even an amateur band, featuring pop and jazz had a wide space to itself, blasting away without fear of contradictory notes.

Not interested in salmon?  The inviting aroma of grilled sausages filled the air, drifting along on delicate clouds of smoke.  Fried potatoes?  Oh yes!  Whiffs of hot grease.

Fancy some Trdeinik from The Czech Republic?  I call it cylinder bread, with flavored dough wrapped around iron molds and flame cooked over a wood fire.

Who can resist the lightly delicious scent of French crepes, being prepared especially for you by women in traditional garb and men in berets.  C’est entendu!  Fresh fruit perhaps to flavor your delightfully thin crepe or a soupçon of homemade jam?  Need to top that off with some rich French whipped cream, n’est pas?  You haven’t tasted cream or butter until you’ve slathered the French versions on your crepe.

But, the best part of any gathering is the people. Always.  In this case, her name is Beatrice, a pretty, American woman with a very interesting background.  She’s also a delightful conversationalist.  Her father emigrated to the U.S. from Germany after WW II and in time joined the American Army, serving for 28 years before retiring.  Beatrice’s mother is French.  So does Beatrice speak English, French, and German?  Mais, oui!  Na sicher!  Of course!  Does she have an accent in English?  No way! Raised in California, but has lived in Germany for a number of years.  Has a German boyfriend.

What else did this expat have to say?  “I love America for its extreme convenience and now that my parents are in their declining years, and I spend a lot of time taking them to hospital appointments, I appreciate the cleanliness of American hospitals.  Fortunately, because he is retired U.S. military, I can take my parents to American military hospitals here in Germany.”

My experience is different from those of Beatrice, but my visits to German clinics and hospitals have been limited and far less extensive than hers.  Also, she lives in a much more rural area.

Let’s get back to the good stuff, like the Sicilian white wine.  In the Sicilian stall, the offerings included not only wine by the bottle and glass, but also jars of pesto and sweet pistachio paste.  Tasted both and liked what I tasted.  But, it was a hot day folks!  Both bottles of wine were very cold and delicious.  I felt like a cast member from Oliver!  “Please, sir, may I have some more?”

Craftsmen galore offered one-of-a-kind curved wood furniture, and cutting boards.  Other booths had homemade jam, or fresh bread from wood fired ovens, or colorful oil paintings.  Yes, a true feast for the eyes and a bane for the pocketbook.  My friends found wrought iron fixtures for their garden.  Another friend found soap and old-fashioned wooden handled brushes and packets of dried herbs.

Now it’s time to get back on track, grab that bottle of Sicilian wine I rescued and review some photos of Rammelsbach’s huge Farmers’ Market.  Care to join me?  I’ll share, but bring your own straw.

FOR ANY ARTISTS WHO ARE INTERESTED:  You are welcome to use my photos to paint from. 

Hint:  There’s more to Rammelsbach than a one-time market.  I’ll tell you more about the town and its fascinating history tomorrow.

Summertime South Part I

I often write about European life and idle wanderings, but I’m really a son of the South…the southern United States that is.  Although, I admit to a kinship with other southerners around the globe.

Just returned from a sojourn in the southeastern U.S.  Reconnected with old friends and the old roots.

You talk about lazy!  The South in the summertime goes as slow and warm as melting butter on fresh bread.   People from the north think about going to the beach.  Southerners are a little bit different.

Family.  Friends.  Barbecue and ice cold beer.  Sittin’ outside.  Taking life slower and easier than a tired sloth.

Traveled through the beating heart of the Deep South.  Atlanta, Charleston and places in between.

Backyard Capers.

Don’t drink beer?  Well, sit out back, overlooking a lake.  Pull up a chair to the picnic table and pour a wine cooler, an iced tea, anything that wets down the body and soul.  The blaze of the sun seems to cut through the towering trees and long, low shadows.  Sure, unlike most of Europe, you can go inside and let the air conditioning do the job, but it just isn’t summertime if you’re not outside sweatin’ on the outside and coolin’ down the inside.

The lake is as peaceful as it gets.  Wide and deep. Water like dark glass.  Ducks paddle by, hoping for some breadcrumbs, or cracked corn.  Turtles, just their heads above water, paddle around the dock.  A few bass and sunfish feel the call and join the crowd.

Of course we grab a handful of this and that and toss it.  Couple of white swans elbow their way closer, tame enough to take bits of bread from your fingertips.  Careful they don’t take the fingers, too.

My friends notice a big flock of Canada geese cruising on the other side of the lake.  “Hate those bastards,” he says.  “They scare away the ducks and crap all over the dock, the yard, everywhere they damn well feel like it.”

I know he keeps a couple of pellet guns around.  “Think you can hit ‘em from here?”  I know he can’t.  The geese are specks, maybe a thousand yards away.

He fetches the pellet gun and gives it a pump.  Slides a .177 pellet in the chamber and raises the barrel like he’s aiming for a moon crater.  Can’t see where the projectile hits, but the geese hear the snap of the air and gently move even further away.  I mention it to my buddy.

“They won’t come closer while the swans are here,” he says.  “Swans don’t take any crap from anything or anybody.”  If the pun was intentional, he doesn’t show it.

His wife comes up from behind.  “I’ve got some cans saved up, if you want to do some target practice.”

The pellet gun is ready.

We go back to our chairs at the picnic table while she sets up the cans across the yard, about fifteen yards away.  My buddy and I take turns plinking.  The .177 is not a big caliber. A .22 would dwarf it, but the cans still fly off when you connect.

He’s a better shot than I am, but the game is still entertaining and we go on for about an hour, pausing for sips of wine cooler, or to nosh a bit on cheese, crackers, and sausage we picked up at Whole Foods.

Meanwhile the wives chat about things that wives chat about.

As our enthusiasm slows, his wife comes up with another stroke of genius.  Fireworks!  Nobody in the neighborhood seems to care that we spend the next hour blowing up the backyard.  Sparks everywhere.  Some shots go high in the air before explosions send small, colorful comets across the sky.

Fireworks!

Darkness falls late, but suddenly.  We turn our attentions to greater libations and to the evening primrose, a flower that blooms at night.  While we watch, one flower after another pops open.  By the next afternoon, the flowers die and another set of blooms take their place.

This is real time, not time lapse.

In the south, you’re never bored.  As a last resort, grab another adult beverage, settle back, and watch the flowers bloom.

Farmers’ Markets

Another favorite summertime sport is a visit to a Farmers’ Market.  Unlike the European versions, which can quickly devolve into stands of cheap clothing, soft ice cream vendors, stalls with crude leather goods and the like, many Southern Farmers’ Markets, like the one in Charleston South Carolina, do a better job of vetting the participants.  Yes, they include artists and food vendors, but these are top of the line and in no way detract from the bushels and bushels of home grown fresh fruit and vegetables.  One man, selling local shrimp, cries out, “These shrimp were swimming yesterday!”

Being a doubter by nature, I check my watch. 9 o’clock in the morning means those shrimp haven’t been on ice more than 12 to 18 hours.  Can’t get much fresher unless you’re working on the shrimp boat.

We check out the shrimp and grits, down a coffee, share a fresh donut that was in hot grease just moments ago.  In a nearby gazebo, two guitars and two singers belt out some tolerable John Denver and Willie Nelson.

Shrimp and Grits

 We get up and wander.  Paintings that capture the soul of Charlestonian life, such as sea creatures, historic buildings, cobblestone streets, and plantation houses.  Other vendors sell homemade fruit jams and relishes, kettle corn from a huge copper pot, fresh bread and local cheeses, home grown herbs in plastic pots, pottery that catches the eye, hand crafted wooden furniture from salvaged planks. But, nothing detracts from the bounteous mounds of sweet, yellow and white corn, red and brown skinned heirloom tomatoes, shiny black eggplants, bright green okra, and summertime fruits.  Everything is local and vine or tree ripened.  The green striped watermelons are begging to be iced and sliced, peaches that capture the gold of the sun are ready to burst.

One lady and her helper, who might be her teenage daughter, offers samples of relish on a smooth cracker.  “Been making these in my house since I can’t remember when.  My momma and grandmomma made ‘em.  Everything comes straight from my garden to my kitchen.”

Golden honey from local bees.  I’m traveling, but I can’t help myself.  I buy all I can carry.  Some I’ll give to friends, some my wife and I will eat.

This is summertime in the South, with a warmth that feels like home.

Homburg Farmers’ Market – Like Having Your Own Fields and Dairies

Strawberry season

Lots of mushrooms

Spitzkohl or pointed cabbage

Let your imagination run

Love those daisies

I love farmers’ markets.  Fresh.  Honest.  For the most part, at least in Germany, you’re buying local, from the folks who picked the berries, dug the potatoes, planted the flowers, and cultured the milk to make the cheese.   There’s no fragrance like a fresh fragrance and no taste like a fresh taste.

I admit I’m a cook.  Not a chef.  Chefs are cooks who know what the hell they’re doing. I fill plates with food; they create dishes that delight the eye, and linger on the taste buds and in the memory.  I make gravy.  They make delicate, silky sauces.  I can’t hang with that crowd and the folks from Michelin are never going to nail a star on my door.  But, that doesn’t mean I can’t shop where the chefs shop and use ingredients that carry the fragrances and tastes of the fields.

I grew up in Michigan and still remember sneaking into a farmer’s plot of corn to pull off an ear of Silver Queen and gobble it down, the sweet juices running off my chin.  No cooking.  No butter, or salt, or pepper.  Nothing else is needed when the vegetables are that fresh.

For the most part, I like my green vegetables at that perfect stage, past raw, but barely cooked, what the chefs call crisply tender.  Salads should be mixed field greens, blends of color, with a very light dressing that hides none of the fresh flavor.  See an earlier blog for basic vinaigrette and never buy salad dressing again!

My bottom line is:  Why eat when you can dine, often for the same cost, or much less.  Farmers’ markets offer that choice and Homburg’s is no exception.  On Tuesdays and Fridays, from 9 until noon, I like to wander and dream and chat with the growers and sellers.  “What should I use these mushrooms for?” and “What’s the difference between this cabbage and that?”  Matter of fact, the pointed cabbage in the photo (Spitzkohl) is tasty and easy to fix.  In my next blog I’ll give you a recipe.

Not to be missed is the tasting.  Never seen a cheese maker that didn’t offer a thin slice, or an olive merchant that wouldn’t let you savor the distinct flavor differences between oil and brine cured.

Germany is known for its salt and smoke cured meats.  Hams, sausages, each with a different name and taste, and all so delicious they’ll make you forget Hormel forever.  Your body will thank you for leaving the nitrates and other chemical shortcuts behind.

Culinary adventures are the perfect time to expand your repertoire and astonish your family.  Maybe I shouldn’t use the word ‘astonish.’ How about lead your taste-bud-retarded kin slowly and carefully into new and pleasant pastures? 

Eating healthy, vitamin laced, fresh meals are neither difficult, nor time consuming.  Average cooking time for greens such as broccoli is twelve minutes.  Carrots and green beans are the same.  Stir-fried cabbage and onions are even less.  Put hams or roasts in a pan with flavored broth, cover and stick them in the oven at 225ºF (110ºC) and let them simmer all day, while you do other things.  Want to spice things up? Add a sausage or two to the pot.

 There are other benefits to good cooking.

At a recent dinner party, one of my guests admonished two young men to learn how to cook.  “A man who cooks well is a chick magnet,” she said.  Golly, I never thought of that!

Shopping is hard work.  Time for a break.