First, a confession. I hate to cook. I'm not good at it, I hate prepping foods, I can't tell if chicken is done, I can never coordinate the protein, starch and vegetable. My husband, fortunately, is an excellent cook, which, unfortunately for him, means he is the cook by default. Not MY fault, of course. DEfault.
Have you ever been to a Farmer's Market (Really, there is a connection - I am bad at transitioning paragraphs)? I went last Saturday to one that can't be more than a mile away and is open year-round. We were having guests from out of town and I needed something besides chip and dip.
Have you ever stood dumbly in front of all. that. produce. at the grocery store (Really, there is a connection - I am bad at trans...)? Trying to figure out what the heck you are going to make with all. that. produce for guests that are coming for the weekend?
The Farmer's Market is a beautiful thing. You get what is available. So I picked up blueberries, raspberries, peaches, freshly made goat cheese, peppers, onions, Roma tomatoes (I will confess that there was a collective awwwwing by Farmer's Market attendees when my daughter Sprout had a full on temper tantrum because her brother had a Roma tomato and she was not getting one fast enough. I mean, is she an advertisement for the goodness of Roma tomatoes or what?), and a bouquet of basil.
Blueberries and raspberries were eaten on the way home like candy. Goat cheese was spread on crackers with a bit of tomato on top and a tear of basil leaf. Peppers and onions were skewered and sent to the grill. Roma tomatoes were eaten like apples. Peaches were packed for lunches and a few slices topped ice cream. I barely thought about it and it barely felt like cooking. Because frankly, I hate to cook.
See, I told you there was a connection.