. . . if you grow good garlic people will love you for it.
Stanley Crawford

Photo Credit: P. Nixon

“Are you Stan?”  I blurted out the words before I had time to think it through.

Tuesday morning at the farmers’ market—I have not yet settled on one shopping strategy.  Should I look at every string bean and head of lettuce and then return to make my purchases, or should  I buy whatever strikes my fancy on the first pass.  Both have their merits but on this day, at the height of the growing season, I opted for the former and found that the gorgeous tomato with purple streaks I had admired as I walked by the first time was in someone else’s hand when I returned.

My tomato regret was forgotten by the time I got back to Crawford’s garlic stand.  I had noticed the  mounds of fragrant bulbs as I strolled by and somewhere along the way, without consciously working it out, all of the pieces had assembled themselves in my mind by the time I returned.

Mr. Crawford, seated at the rear of the stand behind the lug crates heaped with garlic, was gracious.  He nodded in answer to my question and inquired who I was.  Slightly embarrassed, I introduced myself and told him I had read his books about farming in New Mexico—ten or fifteen years ago.

Crawford’s garlic bears little resemblance to the dried out bulbs from the grocery store that I make do with too many months of the year.  One of my favorite ways to appreciate this local treasure is to  top thick slices of fresh-baked farmhouse or sourdough bread with a mix of chopped heirloom tomatoes (purple streaks optional), a clove or two of peeled and minced garlic, a sprinkle of  salt, a drizzle of olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar.  This summer treat is best savored outdoors, sitting in the sun.

On my next trip to the market I’ll take my copy of A Garlic Testament for Stan to sign and I’ll try not to ask any stupid questions about vampires.

“. . . the ever-present landscape flows in and through a Santa Fe kitchen.  It comes in as a stream of brilliant sunlight; as the smell of piñon nuts whose mother trees can be seen across every acre of land; as the inescapable layer of dust which no one tries overly hard to keep out, and, of course, as the food itself.”
Huntley Dent  The Feast of Santa Fe

Last week I made two peach pies: a morning filled with peeling, slicing, rolling, dusting, and, finally, crimping.  Outside my kitchen window squawking scrub jays searched the piñon trees for the soft, sweet nuts tucked inside pine cones.  The smell of peach and cinnamon filled the air.

Yellow and fuzzy with a deep blush, Tony’s peaches from Valley Honey and Apple Farm have a short trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. Purchased today, they can be eaten tomorrow. They are local, but not native.

Photo Credit: P. Nixon

Peaches, like the hollyhocks I wrote about in August, are native to China and traveled to the Southwest in much the same way–from Asia to the Middle East to Spain and, finally, to New Mexico along with apricots, apples and a host of other fruits and vegetables. Dent writes in The Feast of Santa Fe that by 1850 vendors were selling peaches and other seasonal produce on Santa Fe’s plaza.

So I wondered, did the cooks who bought those peaches make pies? Checking Fabiola Cabeza de Baca Gilbert’s historical New Mexico cookbook, The Good Life, I found only one mention of pie. In a description of the elaborate food preparations for a wedding feast, she writes about two helpers who baked ” . . .  dried fruit pies in the mud ovens. The fruit was cooked, sweetened and seasoned. Long strips of flaky pastry were place in bread pans, spread with fruit and covered with more pastry. After these were baked they were cut into squares large enough for generous helpings.”  My guess is that these pies were filled with with dried apples or apricots, traditional favorites in New Mexican cuisine.

Dent includes a recipe for little pies, or empanaditas as they are called in Spanish, filled with peach butter and piñons. The small turnovers are made with flour and lard, stuffed with filling, and cooked in a small amount of hot oil. Done right, according to Dent, they are a light and flaky treat, a Christmas delight.

We ate one of my peach pies the day I baked it,  warm from the oven topped with ice cream. The other one is in the freezer, saved for a cold winter night, maybe Christmas Eve.

Photo Credit: P. Nixon

It was a week of travel, most of it in California: Carmichael, Chula vista, Escondido, Hollywood, Bakersfield, Mountain View, Richmond, and Arcata. Dave and I call it the western swing–his monthly review of construction projects in Arizona, California, Washington. As I list the towns and think back on the flights and rental cars I realize why I was tired yesterday, my first day back at home.

It was Tuesday, the morning I make my weekly trip to the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market. I try not to miss it, especially at the height of the season. If for no other reason, I would drag my sleep-deprived self down to the open air market at the Railyard for the tomatoes. They come in every shape and color: pear, cherry, plum, bright orange, dark purplish-red, and green-striped. Some, the best ones I think, are downright ugly, misshapen and split, bearing no apparent relationship to the perfect round specimens at the supermarket.

On my short drive to the market, trying to figure out why I felt so jet lagged after traveling from only one time zone to another, I realized that I had hurried out of the house without my usual mug of espresso laced with milk.

No time to turn back, I started through the row of tables making purchases, first, white corn and roasted green chile. Next, a quick stop at the indoor market for a cup of strong black coffee. I was starting to wake up, but struggling to juggle a cumbersome bag full of produce (I should have saved the corn for last) and a hot paper cup. I made quick work of the rest of it, not belaboring my selections:  a basket of mixed cherry tomatoes, a head of Bibb lettuce, a bunch of scallions, a container of tiny raspberries and four glossy, dark green poblano peppers. I had a list when I left the house, but had no idea where it was or if I had gotten what I came for (except, of course, the tomatoes).

Just before walking back to the car with my heavy load I decided that I had to  have green beans. Soon they’d be gone and I’d regret that I didn’t buy them when I had the chance. I hesitated, not wanting to walk back through the market, but then I spotted him, a farmer in a big straw hat, spray bottle in hand, spritzing the beans, onions, and squash at a nearby table. He had a couple of different kinds of string beans, but I  was attracted to the long green beans with purple streaks.  Rattlesnake beans.

Feeling more sociable after a half a cup of Guatemalan dark roast I asked about the the beans.  A lot like green beans, he said, the streaks disappear when cooked, but they are more hardy, not as easily overcooked–a bonus given my usual distracted state. So, how do you cook them, I asked, and he replied that he sautees them. In olive oil? At this he looked a little sheepish. When he is trying to be healthy, yes olive oil, but his preference is butter or bacon fat. Sold.

We wished each other a good day after we made the trade, rattlesnake beans and advice in exchange for a few dollars. As I turned to leave I noticed that his teal blue nail polish matched his shirt perfectly.

It’s good to be back home.