It was mid fall—right at the peak of harvest. As we stepped out of the car at W. Rogowski Farm, my senses were overwhelmed. Scents of lemon grass and basil caught in the breeze tugged us in one direction to the fields where we were encouraged to harvest as many herbs as we could handle. A skillet crackled where a cooking demonstration was taking place. Warm quinoa salad with bacon and kale. It was the first time I tried quinoa and was instantly in love (though it might have had something to do with the bacon). Over in the barn, fresh laid eggs were being cracked and whisked into fluffy omelets, as satisfied breakfast diners watched on. Heaps of pumpkins, all sizes and shapes, piled high in front of the parking lot. It was then that I noticed them. Hiding behind the sea of orange was a smaller collection of ghost white pumpkins.
I’ve already admitted to cheating the locavore thing with a few bananas a week. It’s just so easy to grab on the go and really fills me up. If I have a bagel with cream cheese in the morning I’m usually not hungry again until mid afternoon. Somehow a tiny banana has a very similar effect on me. And then there are those days that I forget about the bananas, not in the mood, or whatever, and we end up with black, dying bananas. I personally prefer my bananas a little under ripened, with flecks of green still on its skin, so as soon as those brown spots begin to appear, I’m turned off. But I’m not going to just throw them away. That would be sacrilegious. They might be fair trade, but they’re not local and the only thing worse than not eating local is buying something from thousands of miles away and not eating it. So I make banana bread or some form of.