What the market means to me...

Lucky us, Hastings resident, and NYT journalist, Sue Dominus, has requested to write the blog this week while Pascale takes a little break.

Twenty years ago, when I got pregnant, I started telling people in my life that my husband Alan and I planned to leave the city to find a house in a suburb nearby. I was startled by how often their responses had the tone of a warning. Someone joked that I’d need to update my fleece wardrobe and get a mom haircut; others warned me that my closest friendships would surely suffer. My therapist actually told me he thought the suburbs were where people went to lose their souls. His soul must be very fragile, I thought to myself. Then I stopped therapy for a little while.

My enjoyment of the pleasures of Hastings, therefore, has sometimes had the feeling of sweet revenge. I felt it on early summer mornings when my sister, a fellow Hastings dweller, and I used to jump on our bikes and head to the pool, like preteens on a lark. I feel it, frequently, when the sun is doing something spectacular to the river view from the Aqueduct trail or I catch a glimpse of the Palisades, their colors aflame. And I always feel it when I show up on a Saturday morning at the Farmer’s Market, my heart beating a tiny bit faster as I round the corner off of Southside and see those bright white tents. At that moment, a childlike anticipation kicks in–I am almost giddy, the way you are as you reach the door of a party that you’ve been looking forward to for weeks. The market, of course, is a party of its own kind—one where I know I’ll find friends, but where I’ll also stumble on something new to taste, or have a quick exchange with a vendor whose relationship to the weather is much deeper than my own. The farmer’s market feeds not just my family but nourishes my soul, which, it turns out, was never under threat in the first place.

I have my own rituals at the market, as I’m sure so many of us do. First, I head straight to Larchmont Charcuterie to make sure I can grab some smoked duck breast before it sells out; so much in the world has gone straight down hill, but the improved availability of that smoked duck breast—Daniel has more in stock than he used to—is one of the things in my life that has only gotten better. Once I have my smoked duck breast, I head over to Trevor at The Orchards of Concklin to get my apples, preferably Macoun (pronounced, I have learned only recently, Mac-COWN, who knew) and cider. When my kids lived at home, I wavered for minutes on end—choose the powdered donuts that make a mess but they love or the simple cider ones that I adore with coffee? I love buying nearly-still-flopping-fresh flounder from Pura Vida Fisheries where the combined wit of Dan Markham and Paul Mendelson alone is well worth the wait on that considerable line.

When I look back on my childrearing years in Hastings, I also recall heartbreaking disappointments in the turn of the world, gutting moments of failure as a parent, the exquisite sufferings of adolescence that most young people feel at one point or another. I only realize as I write this that so many of the comforts that made all those challenges bearable–the rituals, even– originated at the market: the support I found there from friends, the more memorable family meals that came of whatever we brought home that day. Adolescence is fraught with change, some of it scary. I think for my boys, knowing, at least, that there would always be donuts on Saturday offered some reassurance–small pleasures could be reliably counted on. 

When friends visit us in Hastings from the city, I almost always engineer a visit to the Farmer’s Market. Sometimes I’m trying to convince them to choose Hastings as they ponder a move. (I once told a fellow local that I was taking some out-of-towners considering Hastings to the market, and he nodded knowingly. “Trying to seal the deal,” he said.) Sometimes I take those friends, I admit, simply because I want them to see, in a microcosm, the fun of living in this town—to witness a teacher embracing an impossibly tall former student in front of a stand piled high with fresh bread, or a young mom and an older mom who have just met exchanging confidences as they wait in line for pickles. I feel like I’m showing off my connection to a famous rock star when I introduce my visitors to Pascale, effervescent and everywhere, the woman in braids who knits it all together, usually in some ensemble that can only be described as pitch-perfect Farmer’s Market chic. This is Pascale, I tell them, as she pauses for a moment in the whirlwind, making me feel, as she does pretty much everyone, that she is especially glad to see me.

It’s hard to express to my guests in that moment what we in Hastings know to be true—that Pascale, curious, warm, and generous–is the soul of the market. And that the market she offers us is the soul of the town. Sometimes when I reflect on our decision to leave the city, as we make our laps around the parking lot on Saturday mornings, I savor the feeling of how fortunate we are to have landed where we did. It feels sweet—as if revenge were actually a dish best served warm.

Norwegian Baked will be selling three types of homespun, traditional Norwegian holiday cookies. Don't forget to stock up on their seeded flatbreads for all your holiday cheese boards as this is their last visit of the year. Also: the temps have dipped and the kale is plentiful at the market. Stands to reason that you should make this belly-warming chicken stew with kale. If you haven’t ordered your bird yet, head to R&M Farm first thing. Or, call Ryan directly at:(973) 903-8546‬. Prefer a leg of lamb or lamb osso bucco on Thanksgiving? Wil-HI Farm is in the house. Don’t be caught with a dull blade on Thanksgiving! Bring your squash splitting and turkey carving knives to Ready Set Sharp on Saturday. And, if you’re guesting, pick up a hostess gift from Ash Hopper Botanical Skincare or Chloe Sikirica pottery.

See you at the market!