words, beats & eats

It’s kind of a bizarre thing if you think about it. If you think about how people, born wherever they were born, to whomever they were born, grow up wherever they grow up, make choices that they make and somehow in the mix of all of this living – meet each other. It’s even more bizarre when you take the time and try to discover, as if tracing a map with your finger, exactly how someone we once barely knew became a friend, then a close friend and then the type of friend who is akin to family.  Superconnected. Don’t think too hard. You’ll end up having an odd existential crisis for a moment. Or go ahead, think in depth, in detail. I trust it will make you appreciate those people that you spend time with.

About 11 years ago I made friends with a kid in guitar class who, in this maze of life, would become the type of friend mentioned above. The type of friend who, during our g-chat while working our grown up jobs discussions, would ask me a game changing question:

“Is there such thing as a stuffed french toast cake?”
Within a matter of seconds I was Googling. Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.
“No, but…” and I proceeded to offer up ways that there would be.

What did he want it stuffed with? Mascarpone and apricots. Seriously. I also need to inform you that the theme of his birthday party was “denim on denim.” A this-is-why-we’re-friends moment. Times two. Or three. Or a million.

Back to the cake – I didn’t want the “cake” layers to have the consistency of bread pudding and it needed to be round. I was too lazy to even attempt baking individual stuffed french toasts into a circle. Or maybe I was afraid they’d explode or dry up and that would be a mighty big waste of mascarpone and apricots. Speaking of apricots, they weren’t in season and instead of making the kid go with berries, I figured out that, indeed, you can rehydrate dried fruit.

I did one trial run with the french toast “cake” layers the night before and said all sorts of prayers hoping that the finished product would live up to expectations. And it most definitely did. Happy birthday, duder. Thank you for being born and for keeping me on my toes, in the kitchen and in life.

Stuffed French Toast Birthday Cake
A Shanti original, inspired by a favorite friend

Obviously any fruit would be delicious. Berries in the summer. Caramelized apples in the fall. But in case you are the crazy pants type who wants to rehydrate apricots, put 2 cups dried apricots in a bowl with 1 cup of cool water. Place in fridge for at least an hour.

French Toast Cake Layers
2 – 9” round pans – I went with springform because I was worried they’d stick, I’m sure normal pans would work
Butter for greasing pans
20 Slices of bread, cut in half diagonally – you’ll end up with 40 triangles – I went with Kings Hawaiian sliced bread. A loaf and a half of Brioche or Challah would work wonders
4.5 cups of milk
6 large eggs
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 tsp of salt
3 tbsp of vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Butter/oil/grease 2 9″ round pans – Place a cooling rack on top of a baking sheet and keep next to your dipping area.

Whisk milk, eggs, brown sugar, salt and vanilla extract. Immerse bread slices in mixture for 10 seconds and let drip on a cooling rack. Arrange bread into 2 tightly packed layers per pan.

Bake for 25-30 minutes. Insert a small knife into the center of “cakes” centers should not be too custardy and tops should be golden brown. If tops are golden, but centers are still too wet, cover the pans with foil and bake 5-10 minutes longer. The cakes should be sturdy, but not completely dried out. They will stiffen up as they cool.
Remove from oven and let cool completely. This can be done the night before or hours in advance.

Mascarpone and Apricot Filling
16 oz of mascarpone cheese
1/4 cup honey
2 tbsp milk
2 cups of apricots, or fruit of choice, chopped into small chunks.

With a standing or hand mixer, mix mascarpone, honey and milk until all ingredients are well incorporated. Set aside.

Take the manliest looking plate you own, put one cooled french toast “cake” layer on top of it. Scoop and spread 1/2 of the mascarpone mixture on top of the layer. Evenly sprinkle the 1 3/4 cups of chopped fruit. Spread the remaining mascarpone mixture on top of the fruit layer. Place the other “cake” layer on top. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Decorate top with remaining 1/4 of fruit. Or eat it. Or both.

Bring cake to friend’s brilliantly themed birthday party. Rejoice when his girlfriend says “I knew you were bringing the cake, but i didn’t know if you were bringing candles. So i bought some.” Have a beer while the sun is still up. Smile and be eternally grateful that in the craziness of life, you’ve somehow, some way, been graced with such great friends.

Hey, LA…
If I didn’t know any better I’d say we have a good thing going.

What you give me in traffic you make up for in adventures and beautiful produce. What I give you in lip service I make up for in sly smiles and appreciative air hugs.

You’ll never be my city love, but you have definitely pulled out the whimsical stops to convince me that maybe I fit here. For now. It’s a good thing.

A peaches and prosciutto as the sun sets kind of good thing. A classic movie in a morbid landmark kind of good thing. A red wine, giggles, move my shoulders to the hipster beat kind of good thing.

I like you. Let’s see where this goes.

Xoxo,
Shants

It only took four and a half years, but I had a major summer crush on LA. Naturally, it involved summer food and oddly enough not a trip to the beach.

My philosophy on summer eating? Assemble and graze. Preferably outside. Excessive cooking and full meals not necessary.

Pick tomatoes from the backyard and eat them with a sprinkle of salt and a bit of chopped basil.

Cheese platters constitute a proper meal. Particularly when they include Humboldt Fog, Drunken Goat, Smoked Mozzarella, a log of goat cheese, prosciutto, Creminelli salumi, figs and peaches. Oh, peaches. AND as lazy as I am, I don’t eat such things of beauty from plastic packages. Even if it means not so tidy plating on uneven ground.

Chips and salsa are always appropriate. Figs from a new friend’s backyard are as dreamy as one imagines. Aforementioned tomatoes, salt & basil that’s been sitting in a mason jar for a few hours? Proof that God wanted us to eat well. And you know how I feel about salad, I eat the stuff for breakfast*.

I know in the eyes of many summer has come to an end, but based off the weather report LA isn’t quite ready for our summer romance to conclude.

Hey, LA…
You can cool down. I’ll stick around after the tomatoes and peaches are gone. Promise.

*Seriously. Blended salad in a mason jar. Every morning. This warrants a post of its own.

written with the intention of posting, but saved into a word document because it was “personal.” a month and a few risks later, here it is…

Darling girl,

Twenty-six is waving hello to me from the other side of the weekend, causing a more than usual dose of introspection. The other day I wrote in an e-mail that twenty-five made my favorites list. That’s what people like to hear when you’re about to turn a year older, right? Although under some sort of “big picture” lens I’m peeking through, it makes sense.

I certainly wish someone would have warned me that the theme of twenty-five would be uncertainty.  I probably would have hid under the covers or stayed in the salt water pool at Ace, but that’s not how it panned out. Many nights belonged to sleeplessness and an anxiety that begs the question “am I going to stop breathing right now?” without a lick of exaggeration. Many days belonged to situations that warranted statements like “whiskey, please.” Or “I’m going to shoot myself in the foot.” Seconds, minutes and too many hours were spent in pursuit of a time lost and relationships better left alone. I would not have picked this year out of the line up as a “favorite.”

Remember that. It’s extremely important.

Those 365 days were necessary. Perhaps it took an onslaught of anxiety, depression and uncertainty to realize the correlation between the lack of creating and the rise of sickness in my body and my mind. Maybe it took being mistreated and disappointed too many times over to realize that my heart simply could not take it anymore. To muster up the courage to say “enough” and mean it; to fight like hell to stand by it.

So…

When you finally fall in love, (the right kind of love) be grateful for this year that forced you to choose differently. The year you stopped, albeit kicking and screaming, with the hoarding heart and started to make room.

When that dream comes true, (the one that seemed so outlandish it’s clear it wasn’t a human thought) be grateful for this year that showed you that magic lies in the combination of imagination and hard work. The year you realized the necessity of creating in order to stay sane.

Every time a blood test comes back clean and you feel (and look!) absolutely amazing, be grateful for this year of green juice, alkalizing foods and getting up at 500am to work your butt off. The year you lost close to thirty pounds in the healthiest of ways.

On the day those doors open, (whether it be to a place small or large) be grateful for this year of twists and turns, of temporary to permanent. The year you realized that here and now was a golden ticket to a future dream, one foot in front of the other.

And before, during or after any of that…when you’re on the other side of this awkward phase of life and deeply rooted in yet another one, be grateful for this year of waiting and questioning and that slight uncomfortable feeling. When anxiety sneaks up on you, please remember that it is not yours to own. And when your heart aches and the idea of hiding, screaming and shooting yourself in the foot sounds comforting, be grateful for this year that made those not so foreign feelings. And know that as long as you’re still breathing, this is life – sometimes its moments are favorites, sometimes mundane, and often times it will hurt, but the sum of them can be and will be pivotal.

08.10.11

My version of fast food lunches fall into either of these two camps:
1. Completely deliciously guilty – a once a month grilled cheese animal style from In-n-Out. Or…
2. Odd. As in odds and ends grabbed from the fridge with half wet hair while chugging a green concoction from a mason jar and cursing a clock that reminds me I’m running 5 minutes late.

The latter is a common occurrence.  A few weeks ago there was half an avocado, lemon and cucumbers. I deemed it delicious and called it lunch. A few days later there was the aforementioned and a jicama in the fridge and I figured, why not? A sprouted grain tortilla, too? Okay. So I threw it all in my retro lunch bag, yes I am that girl, and headed to work in appropriate clothing. No big deal.

Some time post-noon I sliced, squeezed and sprinkled, microwaved a tortilla, sat in front of the computer to stare at printers or projectors or something, took a bite and stopped.
It might have been my dulled senses – caused by an overload of excel, putting out fires and a morning of type type typing- but shoot it was good. Like fake expletive good. Good enough to become obsessed and possibly eat it multiple times a week. Maybe even twice a day. Avocado, cucumber & jicama tacos. Who woulda thought? It warranted a tweet, which led to a spontaneous dinner last Friday with a lovely fellow veg loving/stripes wearing/sort of french speaking/adrien brody crushing friend. A friend who screamed “are you putting this on your blog?” and hid behind her hands when I started snapping photos.

hi, sam.

The dinner version of my unassuming lunch included cayenne pepper and toasting the tortillas on the stove.  Oh! And the lime and lemon zest, because this girl cannot resist citrus zest. She also cannot get over how pretty it looks on the cut up cucumbers and jicama.  And has a major issue with talking in the third person in the middle of a blog post.

Bright, punchy, simple to assemble and even simpler to eat.  Perfect for summer, which is synonymous with being lazy. It happens to be vegetarian, vegan, gluten, soy and sugar free without trying. It’s filling and can easily go along side beans, chips & salsa. Obviously it’s interchangeable. Don’t know or want to know what sprouted grain/sprouted corn tortillas are? Cool, use tortillas of your choice. Jicama a foreign word? Sub with radishes, or hello, this would be delish with grilled corn kernels. Want to throw in some cheese, lettuce or tomatoes? Good for you. And yes, it’d be an awesome topping for carne asada, carnitas, chicken or shrimp tacos.

Avocado, Cucumber & Jicama Tacos

makes about 6 tacos

1 avocado, pitted, cut into chunks
2 cups sliced/cubed cucumbers
1 cup sliced/cubed jicima
1 lemon – zest and juice
1 lime – zest and juice
Salt & Pepper to taste
Cayenne pepper to taste
Tortillas of your choice

1. Toss all ingredients, minus tortillas, in a bowl*.
2. Fill tortillas*.
3. Eat.
4. Proceed to your local movie theater to watch Midnight in Paris. Ok, totally optional, but I do highly recommend it.

*It is best to do all of this while dancing to Foster the People or Raphael Saadiq or laughing with friends.

My father’s side of the family is extremely carnivorous and they’re a pool of talent in regards to marinating, grilling and eating. If you’ve ever been to or heard of our family gatherings then you’re well aware that there is not just one, but multiple types of meat on a 12ft spread. And that’s all fine and dandy unless you lean towards the non-meat eating side. And a bit impossible if you’re not eating any meat, meat by products, white flour and added sugar.

We had a bbq at our house for the moms in our lives and with that came the meat, the fish, the rice, the bread, the “all the things Shanti isn’t eating.” Chocolate cake and strawberry rhubarb crumble that I made included. What’s a girl to eat? Aw, you didn’t think this post was about meat, did you? Please don’t give me a green salad while everyone else is feasting. Spring vegetables are exciting, darn it.

And while everyone threw looks of pity my way while I was prepping and declining steak, guess who finished my vegetable platter at lunch? Yep, the carnivores.

Can I tell you something? Those complicated friends of yours – the ones who have long lists of what they don’t eat and use descriptors that you translate to “I eat rabbit food” and send you into a panic because they’re talking about being gluten free and you don’t have a clue what that is – they eat quite simply and beautifully.

There were meyer lemon marinated olives. Grilled early white corn. Fresh asparagus thrown on the grill and finished off with blood orange olive oil and salt. Polenta was sliced, grilled and I spooned green olive tapenade on top.  And honey cayenne carrots.  There is something minimalistic yet magical about these carrots. No exact recipe needed.

Honey Cayenne Carrots

Let’s be honest, unless you’re a single, lazy girl, or weird, this is a side dish and not dinner. Honestly? I’d pair it with pulled pork or bbq chicken.

Baby carrots, not the kind in a bag from the store, work best, but you can split larger carrots lengthwise. Coat with olive oil and Grill or roast the carrots until they’re tender (400 degrees for about 20 minutes)  While still hot, drizzle honey or agave syrup, sprinkle cayenne pepper, a dash of salt and get your hands dirty by tossing it all together.  Fresh grated ginger is also a nice addition. Sneak the smallest carrot you can find into your mouth. Understand the magic combination of sweet, salt and heat. Try your hardest not to devour rest of the carrots before they’re put on the table.

I enjoy being young and single. And when I don’t enjoy it, I am forced to embrace it and squeeze the hell out of it knowing that young and single is not always and forever. Repeat.

When you’re young and single Friday nights can be spent in bathtubs with a book and a bit of wine. Saturday nights can lead into lazy and silent Sunday mornings.  You can also stroll the aisles of the market and sacrifice bread for the week in the name of eating clean to splurge on flowers that will find their home in a mason jar and open and close throughout the day.

Because young and single does not mean flowerless.

When you’re young and single you can eat green beans out of a measuring cup for dinner on a weeknight and not worry about what your meat and potatoes Midwestern husband is going to say/do when you try and use the “they’re good for you!” excuse.

When you’re young and single you can say things in hopes they’ll happen. Like “Midwestern husband.”
Then you can make a lunch out of green garlic and spinach soup and girly looking potatoes on a paper plate.

I was introduced to green garlic last year via my friends Chicks with Knives. They sent me home with a few bunches and I searched fave food blogs until I found a recipe via Orangette. Bless their hearts, I fell into food love. I couldn’t find green garlic anywhere else the rest of the season, but thought about the soup often. Seriously, I think about soups often. This is more of a food lover tendency than a young and single one, just fyi. Anyway, last week I spotted a pile of it at the Asian lady’s booth at the market and almost knocked her over I was so excited.

They look like scallions, but I dig the hint of pink even after they’ve been cleaned up.

I didn’t care that it was a gorgeous day and I should’ve spent my afternoon outdoors. I was dedicated to the creation and consumption of green garlic and spinach soup.

I created and I consumed. And consumed. And consumed. And I didn’t care about the possibility of sweating out a hint of garlic because, well, isn’t that another joy of being young and single? Mmhmm.

Green Garlic & Spinach Soup
via Orangette

*2 Tbsp. olive oil
*1 Tbsp. unsalted butter – the vegan stuff works quite well, too.
*½ to ¾ lb. green garlic, thinly sliced (white and pale green parts only)
*Salt
*1 qt. vegetable or mild chicken broth – I agree with Molly that a veg stock with tomato would be a bit too powerful for a soup like this. I actually forgot I didn’t have stock on hand and just boiled celery, carrots and garlic in hot water for a while. Whatever works.
*8 to 10 oz. baby spinach leaves
*1 Tbsp. crème fraîche, sour cream or plain yogurt – I find this optional

Warm the olive oil and butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the green garlic and a pinch of salt, and cook, stirring frequently, until it is soft and translucent. It will smell sweeter and you will be tempted to eat it just like that.
When the garlic is ready, add the stock, raise the heat a bit, and bring it to a boil. Then adjust the heat to maintain a gentle simmer, and continue to cook for about 15 minutes. Add the spinach, and immediately turn off the stove. Let it sit for 5 minutes – not too long, or the spinach will lose its color – and then puree with an immersion blender or working in batches throw it in a food processor or blender.

Return the soup to the pot, and place it over low heat to rewarm gently. Add 1 Tbsp. crème fraîche, sour cream or yogurt if you’d like. Add a few pinches of salt, taste, adjust as necessary.

A few notes:

*Young and single is what I know and its slightly romantic moments are what I’ve got for right now. This soup has been tested on young and married, older and single and older and married. Guess what? They like it too.
*If using an immersion blender, make sure your pot is deep enough. I had quite the electric green mess to clean up. Duh, shanti.
*There’s always this weird fear that this soup is going to taste like spinach water. It won’t. If you find it bland, you probably haven’t salted it. Salt, is your friend, loves.
*This soup reminds me of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aint nothin wrong with that. Also, that pink potato up there is called Ron’s Burgandy. Really. Weiser Family Farms makes my heart and stomach happy.
*I get that yesterday was St. Patrick’s day and its color is quite festive but this soup isn’t Irish and sadly enough, Guinness would be way too strong a pairing. It would, however, do your over sauced and corned beef and cabbaged body a little good.

Sundays are my favorite. Simple and slightly routine in nature – I’m a fan. A bit of Jesus, community and beauty whether it is inside a building called a church, walking down the aisle of the church of local produce or my standing at my kitchen counter. If I have it my way, all of the above. Everything is a bit more “la vie en rose” on Sundays. Or maybe it’s just a bit more real and analog.

Deep breaths and alone time are usually found whilst strolling, and by strolling I mean walking kinda quickly, the farmers market.  It is a religious experience of sorts.
I don’t take food for granted. The fact that I can choose to eat organic, local and well is not lost on me.

Neither is the fact that I am able to buy 3 pounds of blood oranges just for my personal weekly stash. I’m eternally grateful. But sometimes, especially when you’re of the camp of people who talk food constantly, uncommon can become the norm.

Golden beets and purple potatoes – a weekly purchase. P.S. those sausage looking things are actually potatoes. Beautiful and delish in real life, not so photogenic.

Kale and bright lemons that are close to perfect – usual suspects.

Apples from Ha – just the way it goes.

I can make my rounds with my eyes closed and it’s familiar. But last week? Last week floored me and it wasn’t another cute boy selling flowers.  Somewhere around colorful carrots and romanesco broccoli sat something small and bright. I did a double take and asked too many questions.  I was excited about a radish. Seriously? A radish? A radish, friends.

Radishes that are almost too pretty to consume, but when consumed are mild, crisp and refreshing. Everything after that just looked prettier, more intense, more detailed. Rose colored glasses and fresh vision.

Maybe your fascination is not with a radish or an apple that isn’t waxed. Maybe yours is clean laundry, flowers, sunshine, your kid’s laugh, your dog’s sleeping position, the smell of books or the stitching in a vintage baseball. Just take a bit of time and marvel, loves.  Find beauty in the small and bright, or a three hour nap, taxes and Vietnamese food over laughs.

Just have happy Sundays. And maybe an apple, too.

It is a common occurrence for people to over-romanticize what I eat for dinner. Don’t be fooled, friends, nothing too fancy goin on here. Just a single girl blasting music* while food is being assembled because most days I can’t even call it cooking. Sautéed spinach with an egg on it? At least once a week. Hummus and Cucumbers? More often than not. Grilled Cheese? Perfect, but please do not tell my trainer. Brie and Apples? With a pint of beer and some crusty bread, please. The other day I ate green beans out of a measuring cup. Seriously.

Unless I’ve spent a previous night cranking out food to eat throughout the week, which is a tactic I strongly recommend, I like my dinners fast and lazy. Some kind of romantic I am. 

Meet my new favorite one pot wonder. People think I tried really hard when I say kale and quinoa, but if you’ve ever made either of the two, you know it’s harder to pronounce quinoa than to actually cook it. Braised kale is my go to, but this brilliant dish is efficient and cuts down the cooking time.  Additions of the usual suspects – lemon, olive oil, salt, pepper and a cheese of sort, and look, it’s dinner.  Simple and vegetarian**. It makes me happy. I’m even happier when the flavors have had time to meld overnight I eat it out of a mason jar for lunch the next day.

One Pot Wonder – Kale & Quinoa
adapted from Food52 found via TheKitchn

The original recipe calls for toasted walnut oil, scallions and pine nuts, but remember that being lazy thing? I subbed olive oil and shallots and omitted the pine nuts because I didn’t have them on hand. I love it when recipes are easy AND forgiving.   

• 2 cups salted water
• 1 cup quinoa
• 1 bunch kale, washed and chopped into 1″ lengths
• 1 lemon, zested and juiced
• 1 shallot, minced (original recipe called for 2 scallions)
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 3 tablespoons toasted pine nuts (optional but probably fantastic)
• 1/4 cup crumbled goat cheese (or feta, or parm or omit for my vegan and lactard friends)
• salt and pepper

1. Bring the water to a boil in a pot. Add the quinoa, cover, and lower the heat until it maintains a simmer. Simmer for 10 minutes, then top with the kale and re-cover. Simmer another 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and allow to steam for 5-10 more minutes.
2. While the quinoa is cooking, take a large serving bowl and combine half of the lemon juice, all of the lemon zest, shallots, oil, nuts and cheese. Check the quinoa and kale when the cooking time has completed. The water should have absorbed, and the quinoa will be tender but firm, and the kale tender and bright green. You can steam it longer and add more water if necessary.
3. When the quinoa and kale are done, toss into the serving bowl with the remaining ingredients. Stand and inhale that smell for a bit. Try not to jump into the serving bowl. Toss to combine, season with salt and pepper, and add the remaining lemon juice if needed.

*Blasting in my kitchen all week long has been “Meet Me In The City” a cover by The Black Keys and “That’s Where It’s At” by Sam Cooke. Definitely my kind of romance.
**With every bite I kept thinking that this would make a stellar side dish for fish if you feel like being impressive.

P.S. Lack of food posts is due to a broken camera and I’m gettin tired of blackberry quality snaps with a poladroid treatment. Issue will be resolved this weekend.

330 am. The night prior I was crawling onto the couch at that hour and now my alarm is echoing through the living room. Do I really need to make the lemon bars? No, I should make them. Is it really going to take me two hours to prep and hour to get ready? Maybe I don’t have to…wait, I have to. My alarm is screaming WAKE UP and not in the beautiful way that Arcade Fire does. Some time closer to 4am I stumble down the stairs and in attempts to keep quiet manage to knock over various containers in order to get to the food processor. In my head I hear my father “Process. Process. Process.” Turn the oven on, start boiling the water and then work on the crust.” Cooking efficiently is turning me into a process person. Sorta. Shoot I should probably get the spinach. And just like that, the knife is dropped and buttery fingerprints are left all over the fridge handle. Where the heck did I hide the meyer lemons? Yep, still a spazz.

By the time the lemon bars are cooling on the counter, the spinach is wilted, draining and the shallots and garlic are in with the olive oil. Is that pan enough for 3 people? I don’t want them to think that we’re limiting their food. Hi, they’re guests and he’s technically a movie star, use the 8×8 one instead. Clank, bang, clonk. All noises that go unnoticed when music is playing. Wait, why isn’t music playing? Oh yeah, it’s 4:30 in the morning and people are sleeping. Slam. Whoops. Should I add more salt to these eggs? Dip. Yeah,let’s add some more eggs, too. Half the initial amount. Crack, toss, pour, toss. Shoot. I forgot to halve the salt amount. Too salty. Is it safe to taste test raw eggs? Way too freakin salty. I dump the eggs down the sink and as the bowl nears empty I realize I could’ve just added more eggs. Brilliant.

Two vegetarian egg casseroles in the oven (spinach, mushroom, roasted red peppers and drunken goat cheese) and the shower is on. I don’t want to wear real pants, but I suppose I should look nice. Nope, no heels, I don’t want to have to stand in the hallway forever in heels. It’s going to be warm, I can wear a dress. Wait, I don’t want to run up and down the stairs with egg casseroles in a dress. Oh, the elevator. Pants? No,the dress.  Yes, the dress.

Hair straight, make-up and dress on, fruit, yogurt, pan of lemon bars, 2 egg casseroles, a trifle dish and a carafe in tow. 645 am – a few minutes to spare. Thank goodness for recyclable bags and some act of God that makes up for my lack of balance. Miike Snow is musical caffeine on the drive over until coffee is in my hands. Whoa, it is windy. No, really like Chicago windy. My own 7am socal version of Bear Down. I park illegally next to the entrance door, grab one bag full of food and swing the car door open. Wind whipped hair now trapped in my lip gloss and my hands are fighting to keep my dress down and bag from dropping on the ground. This is not a Marilyn moment. I run and manage to get past the door. And the first words out of my mouth on this Sunday morning…

“I suppose it would’ve been a good day to wear pants.”

Somewhere after the blood oranges, between the potatoes and the rosemary, I caught a glimpse. I let that glimpse follow me past the singing guitar player and right after a golden beets purchase I decided I had to at least have a look.

I looked and circled the bins one too many times trying to convince myself that it was indecision that kept me tip toeing and bottom lip biting. Tulips? Nope. Lilies? Nope. Eavesdropping and waiting for the booth to clear? Yep. I could spare a few apples in the name of snapdragons, right? Right. As I handed them over and realized “how’s it goin?” wasn’t going to do me any good at this point, I spotted something on the corner of the table and before I could even discourage myself from being nosy…

“What are you reading?”
A classic. The cover looked like a classic.
“Oh, that?” He said pushing the book underneath the stack of butcher paper. “I’m not really reading it.”
Confused. My sunglasses masked eyes must have looked confused.
“What do you mean?”
“ I’ve had this book in my bag for like a year and I just read a few pages of it yesterday because it was really slow at this one market. I’m not reading it. I just leave it on the table for show.”
Half appalled, half relieved, still stunned I even said anything. Laughter made up for the lack of literary conversation.
“Seriously? Are you being serious right now?”
“Yep, so that people will think I’m smart and stuff; everyone wants to buy flowers from someone who is smart.”
If he wasn’t laughing in between his words I would have deemed him a complete phony.
“True, very true. But still…”
“I even put the glasses on. The book, the glasses…It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”
I giggled, shook my head and looked at the sincere smile that was confessing these marketing tactics.
“Well obviously it worked because I just bought flowers from you.”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I chuckled my way past the hummus to purchase apples that would disappear by Wednesday. All for a mason jar full of flowers and a conversation that followed me into the next Sunday afternoon.