To market, to market

(OK, yes, I took this in Italy, not Brooklyn. But isn't it just the loveliest sight?)
Right now, I feel like I’ll do almost anything for a berry. Strawberry, blueberry, raspberry – I don’t care. I long for a loose pint of inky, chubby blackberries, the kind that are so plump and ripe that the skin almost bursts at the touch, and you gleefully stain your lips and fingertips as you pop them into your mouth. I want strawberries on my spinach salads again, and raspberries? Oh my. I think I just made my own mouth water.

It doesn’t help that everywhere, I see signs of spring, and yet it’s still so far away. The wind’s knife edge has dulled just a bit, and my skin’s winterized rawness is slowly fading away. It’s no longer pitch black when I leave work, and the evening sky is turning that spring-y royal purple. And yet.

I want my farmer’s market to come back.

That’s really what this longing is all about. I want berries, of course, but also the crisp chards and tender spring onions, the mottled creamy garlic bulbs, the lacy dandelion greens — all the fresh food that my market brings to me from farmers just a couple of counties away. It doesn’t open up for another two months, but I can’t help already planning what I’ll do on its first day back. I’ll get up early-ish that Sunday – I think 9:30 is perfectly reasonable, as far as spring weekend wakeup calls go – and slowly drink a cup of coffee at the dining table, making out a list on the back of an envelope. The list won’t matter much in the end, but it will be so satisfying to make one, just the same. I’ll think about caramelized Cipollini onions, and the meaty purple potatoes from the first booth, and maybe a quick stop at the Flatbush co-op for a chicken to salt and roast. I’ll flip through a few cookbooks to remind myself of the spring dishes we like; Alice Waters is a good start, of course, but the Lee brothers and I have become awfully good friends lately. And then, there’s always what Edna Lewis has to say. What would she serve for a spring feast?

I’ll tell Michael I’ll be back soon, and reach into the hall closet for a hoodie – because early May mornings still hold the promise of a chill – and a couple of canvas bags. The distance from our building to Cortelyou Road is not short, but the path winds through a neighborhood so full of beautiful homes and yards that I almost have no choice but to walk. I’ll save the bus ride for when I come home with overstuffed bags and sagging shoulders.

When I get to the farmer’s market, I’ll go all the way to the end of the row to the flower man. His booth is my weekend treat; we don’t need flowers the way we need onions or greens, but his bouquets of wildflowers are spring songs wrapped in brown paper. I’ll buy one and take care not to knock it into the strollers that will be crowding the sidewalk. I’ll move on to the pepper-and-tomato stand and pick up some sunny yellow peppers, a couple of jalapenos and a few tomatillos. Maybe I’ll grab some blue corn chips, and we’ll have nachos with cojito cheese, beans and warm roasted tomatillo salsa that night. Or maybe I’ll braise some young spinach and gratin some potatoes from the very last stand, the one with the gorgeous purple cauliflower and fennel bulbs the size of a softball. Or maybe we’ll have the fresh ravioli from the egg people, the pasta so tantalizingly tender that the ricotta spills out into the sauce at the first poke of a fork. I’ll buy it all, just in case.

Or maybe, because it’ll be Sunday night and I just might not feel like cooking – maybe we’ll have peanut butter on sunflower bread from the bakery upstate and a few slices of whatever fruit I find, chased by the bakery’s chocolate-cranberry cookies and a mug of tea. Because after all, we’re just at the beginning of spring’s bounty. And we haven’t even gotten to the berries yet.

Blueberry muffins for the fruit-deficient

I made these earlier this week, when I was thinking of spring and jonesing for some berries one night. And then I remembered the blueberries from our winter CSA, hidden in the back of the freezer. I nearly leapt into the kitchen.

6 tsp. unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 cups flour (I used King Arthur unbleached, but I don’t think it matters)
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
½ cup, plus a couple of tablespoons, of plain yogurt (I used low-fat, but I have nothing against whole milk)
1 pint, give or take, of blueberries, washed and picked free of stems
raw sugar for topping

Using a hand mixer on low to medium speed, beat the butter and sugar together until smooth, and add the eggs one at a time until fully combined. Whisk the flour, baking powder and salt together to get rid of any lumps (I hate sifting, but whisking, I can do all day), and mix into the wet ingredients, about half a cup at a time, until smooth. Mix in the yogurt until the batter is a consistency you like; a thick batter will make for a denser muffin. Feel free to add more yogurt for a looser batter. Fold in the blueberries, taking care to distribute them evenly throughout the batter.

Line a muffin tin (I do this because my boyfriend hates scrubbing muffin tins, but if the person in your house who does the dishes isn’t so persnickety, feel free to just butter them) and butter the top of the pan, so the muffin tops won’t stick. Fill each cup about ¾ of the way full, and sprinkle a little raw sugar on the top, if you’d like a little extra crunch. Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 30 minutes, or until the tops are a mottled golden brown with flecks of blueberry peeping through. Cool them down on a baker’s rack.

I prefer these eaten at the table by the window, smeared with honey.