And now, Chicago ...

Oh, dear. It has been a long time, hasn't it? My world has changed. And how's yours?

Last time I wrote, we were ensconced in California, on Oakland’s Lake Merritt to be exact. A lovely place really, with a Saturday farmer’s market nearby, Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s close, and friends—those I’ve known all my life and a remarkable group of new friends as well.

Now, five months later, we live in Chicago’s Logan Square. We’re on the boulevards … tree lined streets with wide grassy medians that are perfect for Frisbee playing and dog gatherings. In the Bay Area, I had friends; here I have neighbors. There’s a difference. You know?

Our new neighborhood is an historic district … on the National Register for both its vernacular architecture and its community development. High class and middle class mix here; across the street are big houses with big yards and carriage houses in the back. Our building has been an apartment since at least 1915. Homes just around the corner were built in the 1890s. (Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are both a fair distance away--as is really any other type of grocery store.)

The season's last snow fell, with flakes fat and wet, three days after the moving van left. A month later, the first farmer's market opened, the Green City Market in Lincoln Park. "Local Flavors" takes on a whole new meaning. With Houston at one extreme and Oakland at the other, I wasn't prepared for Chicago's variations at all. But now I understand … or I’m beginning to, at least.

In the East Bay, the seasons have such soft edges and everything grows so well for so long. The farmer’s markets run year-round. Here there was at least a five-month wait between markets. And at that first market, it was as if the farmers and eaters offered salutations to each other, as well as to the winter passed and the season's first yields. At that first market in early May, we found a whole community awakening from winter. People stood together laughing, chatting, with tousled hair, wrinkled jeans, and steaming coffee. They ooohed and ahhhed over the season’s first tender sprouts … most abundantly, asparagus and fiddlehead ferns. Dog tails wagged everywhere (dogs are prohibited in the markets in California). It was a deliciously different vibe.
That night, we ate sweet, hand-snapped asparagus and plum-sized red potatoes (P likes to roast them together); a salad of mixed greens, shaved raw rhubarb, and baby scallions; and local lamb. We were amazed.

Since that first Market visit, we've spent Saturday mornings there and Saturday evenings at home, dissecting both the market experience and the day’s meal, trying to define the nuances in it all. Today we went to the Logan Square Farmer’s Market. It was the first of the ’09 season. Farmers from Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin. Vegetables, breads, cheeses, home cured pork, farm eggs from down-state—the yolks are bright as tangerines, and hand spun wool, dyed with marigolds, onion skins, tea. P made a frittata for brunch—wild arugula, green garlic, cottage bacon, nettles, tomatoes and those damned bright eggs. So very full of flavor. Tomorrow, I’m planning a green garlic pudding soufflé with nettle soup.

Our neighbors say it only gets bigger and better from here on. And there was talk at the market of opening a neighborhood food coop. It’s such a fine beginning.