I usually stop by the little farmers' market on my way home from work on Saturdays. I like going. I like being among the people, as we all share a common love for produce. I like looking at vegetables, my mind running rampant with ideas on how to cook them. I can grill a mean zucchini.
Last week, I found some farm-fresh eggs, a loaf of french bread, and two tomatoes. These were no ordinary tomatoes. They were as big as my head. The older gentleman who was peddling these mutant fruits was boasting that his tomatoes were grown in soil, not in water, and not in a greenhouse. He leans in and whispers, "Those tomatoes over there," indicating to another booth, "They are grown in a hot house. I don't see how they let them get away it with it!"
Indeed! There must have been some sort of conspiracy afoot. Terrorists must be involved, because no true American would ever dare sell subpar tomatoes at a Farmers Market.
Apparently, he was the tomato police, or he thought there should be some...ready to ban anyone who's tomatoes didn't meet the high expectations of the Farmer's Market.
Today, I stopped by the market...late. The loaves of french bread were sold out. The farm-fresh egg peddlers were missing-in-action, as was Man of the Tomato Conspiracy. I did manage to buy what looked like two ball-shaped zucchini (Eight-ball Zucchini to be more precise). I can hollow them out, stuff them and bake them. I will try this Monday and see how it turns out.
If it's nasty, there's always hot dogs.