Meet the lineup!

We have a lot of tomatoes in the garden, and sadly for the season, many of them are still green.  Due to the summerless summer, our tomato count is extremely low; normally, I’ve given up counting at this point of the year.  Each year, we plant our usual stock of tomatoes and each year we try a few new varieties.  This year’s lineup consists of eleven different varieties, ranging in color from white to purple, most of them are heirloom.  This year, we planted 70 different plants.

The Usual Suspects

Gardener’s Delight:  (heirloom) Most people assume these are cherry tomatoes when they see them, but they are not.  They are not acidic and teeter on the edge of being candy they are so sweet.

Noir de Crimee: (heirloom) So far, this is my favorite tomato.  The purple color throws you at first since it will never turn red to signal ripeness.  Thin skin, lots of meat, and best raw.

Prince Noir: (heirloom) Yet another purple tomato, but smaller than the Noir de Crimee.  It is sweet, rich, and also has a thin skin.

Great White Beefsteak: (heirloom) A large tomato that ripens to a golden yellow color.  Mild and sweet and we ate one yesterday that had a melon-like flavor.

Caro red: (heirloom) Big, round, and orange.  I like this tomato because it is very versatile and makes a complex sauce.

Cornue des Andes:  (heirloom) Shaped like peppers, these tomatoes turn bright red and can be pretty heavy.  An excellent sauce and cooking tomato, but a little too mealy to eat raw.

Voyager: This is a gnarly tomato that is a bit too acidic for my tastes.  It was tried last year and again this year for good measure, but will not be rejoining the line up next year.

Beefsteak: Classic round, red, and meaty tomato that is very productive.  Not as tasty as many of our other tomatoes, so I use it as volume in sauces.

The Newbies 

Roma: Well-known Italian tomato use for sauces.  Curious plants that don’t grow very high and fruit that grows in clusters.  Better for cooking than eating raw.

Russian: (heirloom) Our friend brought us one a few years ago and we kicked ourselves for not saving some seeds.  This is a very large tomato, very tasty and juicy. Has earned a spot on the “Usual Suspects” list for years to come.

Beefmaster: These are supposed to get huge, but they are nowhere near ready yet.  I do like the smooth, pale green skin they currently have.

And that our lineup this year, but as you can see, we’re still holding out for some sun and high temps to get them to where they need to be.  If not, I fear we’ll be swimming in green tomato jam all winter.

Explaining the monster

Looking at Friday’s blog, I realized I probably didn’t explain very well the monster and why it makes it annual visits to our kitchen.  We do a lot of canning from our garden.  The first vegetables ready are the tomatillos in August, the small green Mexican tomatoes used to make salsa verde.  After that, we can tomatoes coulis, apple sauce, and sometimes dishes like ratatouille.  Basically, we stick anything in a jar that grows in such an abundant that we couldn’t eat it all at once.  The canning jars are washed, filled, and equipped with a rubber ring that doesn’t allow any air to pass.  Then they go into that giant pot (aka ‘the monster’) that sits on my stove; that’s the sterilizer.  A large soup pot could be used too, but the size of the sterilizer lets us do a lot at once and is made to hold the jars tightly so they don’t bounce around doing the vigorous sterilizing process.  To sterilize the jars, the water is boiled for two hours (getting to this temperature takes some time too) and then again for 90 minutes 24 hour later.  We can when the vegetables are fresh, which often means in August, the hottest month of the year.

Why do we do this?  For the same reason we garden: because we like to eat well.  There’s nothing like opening a jar of homemade tomato sauce in the middle of a dismal January evening.  At that point, sweating our butts off in a dripping wet kitchen is just a memory and it’s far better than anything store bought.  And, not that I always feel this way in August as the sweat rolls down my back and I still have hours of work in front of me, but I really like it too.   

There’s a monster in my kitchen

The monster takes over the entire stove.  Translation: sandwiches for dinner.

It’s that time of year again- canning.  As usual, our first run in the sterilizer is salsa verde, made from tomatillos.  The sterilizer holds up to 15 half-pint jars and boils for 2 hours on the first day and 90 minutes on the following to make sure any lingering bacteria is killed.  Just what I want on a hot August day…

Salsa verde

America's Test Kitchen "Dish It Your Way" Challenge: Mac n' Cheese

I recently watched a show where French chef Christian Constant demonstrated his version of a pasta dish.  He stuffed cooked macaroni with paper thin truffles, cut the macaroni’s into rounds, placed them on the inside of a hollowed out eggshell, and then filled that with a scallop mousse.  Once cooked, he removed the shell and had something that looked like a Fabergé egg.  It was amazing, and like Michael Jordan doing a layup, he made it look easy.

While pondering what to do for the next round of America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” challenge, Christophe turned to me said, “Do something like that!”

My response, “You’re nuts!”  I’ve never been good at basketball and have never been able to a layup to save my life.  There was no way I was going to try what a starred chef pulled out of his hat.  Not to mention, it was missing one key element: cheese.  Yes, that is how I got out of that one: cheese.

Scaling back a bit, I decided to something more family style, and I looked in the fridge for inspiration.  I found Roquefort cheese and smoked salmon, hence I decided upon:

Rigatoni with Roquefort Cream Sauce and Smoked Salmon

(I immediately nixed Christophe’s idea to stuff the Rigatoni with the salmon and cook them in a hallowed out egg.) 

I ran with this idea because I’m tired of being disappointed with a mac n’ cheese that is overcooked, swimming in a bland sauce, and lacking character.  More than anything, I was interested in taking a risk with flavor and ready to go a little off the deep end.

Ingredients:

1 pound Rigatoni pasta

4 Tablespoons butter

2 Tablespoons flour

2 cups whole milk

10 oz. Roquefort cheese, cut roughly into 10 cubes, plus additional for garnishing

8 oz. smoked salmon, cut into 1/8 inch matchsticks

½ cup bread crumbs

Salt and pepper

Bring 2 quarts of salted water to a boil over medium high heat.  Stir in one pound of Rigatoni pasta.  Cook for 8 minutes (or slightly under ‘al dente’; the pasta will continue to cook in the oven so an ‘undercooked pasta’ is desired at this state to avoid a mushy end product), and drain well.

While pasta is cooking, melt 4 tablespoons of butter in a medium size pot over medium high heat.  Allow the melted butter to foam; sprinkle flour over the top and allow it to rise and brown slightly.  Knock down the mixture by whisking briskly and continue until a smooth consistency is reached.  This will avoid unwanted flour clumps in the sauce.  Add milk, lower heat to medium –low and continue to whisk until a homogenous liquid is formed.   Stir in 9 cubes of the Roquefort cheese and continue stirring into melted.  Season with salt and pepper to taste, being cautious not to over salt since the cheese has a high salt content. Mix in pasta until well coated.

In four large ramekins or one 9x13 baking dish, layer sauce coated pasta and salmon, followed by a top layer of pasta again.  Sprinkle with breadcrumbs and crumble the remaining cube of Roquefort cheese on top.  Place in preheated 350F oven for 15 minutes.  Garnish with additional cheese and chives if desired.

I know Roquefort cheese and smoked salmon aren’t a typical combination, but risks are worth taking when something is to be gained.  In this case, the risk paid off.  I got a well cooked, not over cooked pasta, in a sauce “with character” with smoking, salty hints that brighten the dish.  Now, I think I’m ready to work on my free throws – I’ll get to that layup later.

Monday’s Leftovers: August 21st

Monday’s Leftovers is a series that recaps the moments of a Sunday lunch along with the memories that mark the day.

Summer came without warning.  The mild days that filled June and July were quickly replaced with cloudless skies, still air, and temperatures soaring into the 90s.  I enjoy summers, but the drastic change took me by surprise.  Tired from a sleepless night, I woke up late and found Christophe in the kitchen waiting for me with coffee in hand.

“How about something simple for lunch today?”  He asks once I shook the grogginess off.

“What do you have in mind?”  I ask.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all taken care of,” he replies with a smile.

With morning chores completed, I meet Christophe in the garden.  We sit down with a beer in hand under the shade of the hazelnut and pear tree.  Getting up, he finds a rock and some ripe hazelnuts. 

“I don’t know how many tons of these I’ve eaten since I was a kid,” he says.  Taking the rock, he strikes the nut quickly on the table and the shell falls to the side.  A mat, pale brown nut is left in the wake.

“Here”, he says smiling.

We shift around as the sun passes through the sky trying to keep in the shade.  Christophe lights the barbeque and I feel the still air get even hotter.

“The sole won’t take long to cook,’ he says.  “I also made taboulet.”

“Awesome,” I think to myself.  “I don’t have to turn the stove on.”

We sit down for lunch, once again shifting to keep in the shade.

“Do you want to go to the river to cool off?”  Christophe asks.  “I know a gorge we can swim in that has a waterfall.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say.

Pointing across the valley, Christophe shows me where it’s located.  “It’s kind of a long walk, but I promise it’s worth it.”

I agree enthusiastically and dishes are put aside until later so we can start out right away. We pass under gigantic ferns taller than us, across rocky outcrops, and pass the white birches and the ancient chestnut trees that dot the view from our terrace.  We stop a few times for water and to admire the view of the village from across the valley.  I dripping in sweat and every once in a while Christophe promises “It’s not much farther now.”

I’m exhausted, soaked to the bone, and am starting to doubt the existence of the gorge. Finally, ninety minutes later, we arrive.  Surrounded by towering trees, a cascade jets down a fall into a pool followed by another and then another.  All my doubt and frustration vanish as we stripe down to our swimsuits and jump in.  The water is glacial, but refreshing and all memories of my hot, sleepless night melt away.

View of the village half way to the gorge.



Lavender

It’s about time to trim back the lavender, which had a good summer run.  We planted it a few years back next to an old stone wall.  It revels in the heat and has quickly overtaken the other neighboring plants.    Attracting bees and other insects, its flowers bloom most of the summer, and what I really like about it that I don’t have to water it.  In fact, since the summer it was planted, I don’t think I’ve ever watered it.

When one thinks of France, the flowing lavender fields of Provence come to mind, and why not, they’re gorgeous.  Lavender is produced for it flowers which are used in just about everything, and honey made from it is the best I’ve ever tasted;  hands down the best, and is nothing like the product bought in the bear shaped squeeze bottle.  The last time we had a jar of it, it lasted less than a week.

Christophe has memories of going to lavender farms with his grandparents with flasks in hands to buy lavender essence to be used in the wash, around the house, and for medicinal purposes.  We put our cuttings in sachets and place them in the armoires and dressers.  Not only does it make everything smell nice, but it also keeps any moth problem at bay.

I’m glad we planted it- its low maintenance, high effect and since it is an editable flower, I’m starting to learn how to cook with it too.

Monsieur Potiron

For the last few years in our garden, we’ve had some form of a potiron, or pumpkin.  This year, we have a potiron galeux, which refers to the bumps it forms on its outer shell. We use it in all forms: soups, pastas, mashed, and even in nutty breads.  A single potiron from our garden can weigh 20-30 pounds, so even one from the garden is enough to keep us going for most of the winter.  Our neighbors, Monsieur and Madame Gousse had one so big a few years back that they had to use a wheel barrel to get it out of the garden.

When planted, we tend to the seedling very closely, giving it lots of water.  Each day, we tour the garden and are amazed with its rapid growth.  This year, it has done remarkable well.  In fact, it has crawled over the six foot tall tomato stakes, climbed the wall, and trotted along the terrace and is about to reach the other side.  Needless to say, it is enormous. 


Monsieur Potiron along the terrace



climbing the wall

Its presence is so commanding that we’ve gone from calling ‘it’ a potiron to giving it a title and calling it ‘Monsieur’.  It seems to fit him, and I think he’s flourished even more with his new status because we don’t have one potiron on the vine, we have six – with new fruit still forming.  It has attracted attention from every passing person, and by the path it’s making to the fence, I think it’s making an effort to reach out and touch them.  He seems friendly enough, but I was tripped in the garden the other day after hungrily admiring one of the fruits.

Perhaps it’s best not to tell him about Halloween or Thanksgiving. 

Monday’s Leftovers: August 14th

Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps the moments of a Sunday lunch, the music, the tasks, and the memories left long after the coffee is finished.

Menu:

Champagne: Alfred Rothschild & Co., Brut - Grande Reserve

First Course: Rougail stuffed garden peppers and balsamic vinegar salad

Main Course: Shallot and balsamic vinegar marinated salmon filet served with potato lasagna and green olive tapenade

Cheese: Roquefort

Dessert: Coffee and a dark chocolate square with fleur de sel

I finally got around to weeding the last row of tomatoes.  The dirt at the garden’s edge is poor and dry, so it was a tedious task.  Saturday’s night light showers did little to help, and the air was growing humid, but despite it all, the morning passed quickly.  Christophe was dancing in the kitchen again to Hôtel Costes, his first choice in Sunday morning music.  Noontime arrived and we found ourselves in the garden enjoying one of the few true summer days.  Aperitif served and savored at a leisurely pace, followed by the salad – 100% from the garden.  The potato lasagna was a test that came out well, but discussion followed as how it could be improved.  Slowly, the clouds rolled back in and the sun disappeared; a light breeze started to blow.  We finished coffee as the first drops began to fall, and washed dishes to the monotone drum of the falling rain.

Pleasure of the Season: The First Tomato

“Pleasures of the Season” is a series of posts which appear from time to time.  They focus on something special that occurs only seasonally, often fleeting, and something we anticipate.  They highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

It started in early April with a handful of seeds that we saved from the year before.  I planted each one individually, packed them all in a crate, and chased the sunlight around the house with them until they had finally broken through the soil.  We watched and watered them, occasionally bringing them outside when the weather was warm enough.  Slowly, they inched their way upwards and small foliage appeared.  Most of the seeds produced a plant, and we were happy with our overall success rate, for we knew we would lose more along the way before the plants had reached full maturity.

June arrived, along with the construction of a small green house.  The six inch plants were transferred outside and were deeply planted in the rich composted dirt so stronger roots would form.  They suddenly looked dwarfed, but we knew it for the better.  Each morning, we would descend to the garden to open the green house, and inspect the night’s progress.  Weeds would be removed, the plants would be watered, and then left to soak in the sun and grow.  The process would be repeated before the sun had set to close the green house so the small plants wouldn’t be exposed to the cool, mountain night air.  Most continue to thrive, but we also dealt with a few causalities along the way.

Late June brought some summer days.  It was time to transfer the plants to the garden.  One by one the seedlings were removed from their protective enclosure and planted into the ground in rows.  By week’s end, all had survived.  A few weeks passed, stakes are added, and the growing plants are gently pruned and tied up.  Daily watering became a must, even though the summer has not been as blistering hot as previous ones.  Eventually, flowers appeared which formed into small, green fruit.  We watched again, and mark their growth with daily conversations on their progress.  Then, one started to ripen.  Slow at first, but its color changed with each passing day until finally, the day arrived: the first tomato from the garden.

America's Test Kitchen "Dish It Your Way" Challenge: Burgers!

Over the course of the summer, I’ll be participating in the America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” Blogger Challenge.  The “Dish It Your Way” asks blogger to recreate an American classic dish throughout the summer, share the recipe, and tell a story.  This week: Burgers.

Each year when we return to Chicago, we have a few mandatory stops, and a local bar – restaurant tops our list.  It’s a small place that boasts the best burgers, a ghost, and has peanuts on the table that are shucked right onto the floor.  To Christophe, it is folkloric, and I often try to schedule our stop on a Monday so we can watch Monday Night Football in the bar just to put the icing on the cake for him.  This place is Americana at its best and encompasses all that I want when I go out for a burger and a beer.

The first time I took Christophe there, he ordered a buffalo burger; not buffalo as in the hot sauce he now loves, but as in buffalo meat.  He was hooked on his first bite and hasn’t strayed from his order since.  I thought hard about our evenings there for this round of America’s Test Kitchen “Dish It Your Way” challenge.  With the bar raised so high, there is no way I can compete by creating simply a ground beef burger, so I’ve decided to take a completely different route.  Many of the ingredients in my burger are typically French and might not be even available in the United States (Can regionally controlled unpasteurized goat’s milk cheese be imported in the United States anymore?), but that’s what make this Galette d’ Epinards au Rocamadour.  It can also be pronounced Spinach Burgers with Goat Cheese.

Save us a place in the bar this winter.  We like the table by the chimney under the mounted boar’s head where we have an unobstructed view of the football game and a basket full of peanuts.

Spinach Burgers with Goat Cheese

The burger:

1 8 ounce packet of frozen chopped spinach

1 cup bread crumbs

¼ cup grated parmesan cheese

¼ cup grated emmental cheese

3 beaten eggs

½ cup, plus 2 tablespoons of softened unsalted butter

2 tablespoons of Herbs de Provence

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon pepper

The toppings:

1 portion Rocamadour cheese (This is an unpasteurized, whole milk goat cheese with a creamy rich texture and a pungent odor.  The semi soft Mothais-sur-feuille can be substitute, but dry, crumbly goat cheeses should be avoided since they will not melt well.)

A few slices of Toulouges sweet onions

Batavia salad

Cook spinach and drain well.  Once cooled, combine all ingredients and form into 6-8 burger-sized patties.  Freeze overnight.

To cook, place the frozen patties in a non-stick pan over medium heat.  Cook undisturbed for 5-6 minutes allowing bottoms to brown.  Turn patties over, cover, and cook 5-6 more minutes on low heat.  When interior temperature reaches 160 F, place one portion (35 grams) of Rocamadour cheese on the burger.  Cook for 1-2 minutes more, allowing the cheese to melt.  Top with Toulouges sweet onions, and a few leaves of Batavia salad.

Serve with fries.

The village fête

Regardless of the overcast weather, the village held its annual fête yesterday.  It’s a block party of sorts where old and new village residents get together, share a drink, and a bite to eat.  It starts with a mass in the centuries old church and then rolls out into the square where fresh peach wine is poured abundantly.  Years ago, inhabitants of nearby villages would take the fading footpaths across the mountain to attend the party and leave at first light to attend to their livestock in the morning.  The fête does not have the mythic proportions it used to, but each year I’ve seen it grown in popularity.  More old residents are coming back to share their stories which is slowly reviving the history of the village. 

I look forward to this event each year because I learn more about this village that I now call home.  I am also given the chance to be part of its history.  I get to be involved in the stories that are retold year after year, like when a farmer parked a tractor full of manure in the square in protest of the party, or when a priest refused to say the mass until the flowers were removed from the alter for fear of wasps.  What I like the most though is the positive energy it gives the village, a rallying point for everyone to get behind so it’s a success and one that gives everyone a happy feeling at the end of the day.  I feel like I’m carving out my place, even though I am a foreigner.  It makes me remember my old neighborhood block parties where everyone pulled up a chair, grabbed a glass, and a plate to eat.  The village fête is the equivalent of that, minus the egg toss.  Which has given me an idea, I might try to introduce it next year and then see if anyone is up for a cake walk.

Don't bother calling, France is on vacation

It is no secret that the French love their vacation time.  Full time workers are guaranteed five weeks of paid vacation, which is considerable more than what the average American worker gets.  Most often, two weeks are taken around Christmas and the other three are spent in late summer.  Here, the holidays are in high swing.  I love, and admire the philosophy of having so much time off, but I have to ask, “Why does everyone have to take their vacation at the same time?”  Paris empties out for the month, trains are packed to capacity, and the roads are overflowing with camping cars.  In fact, there is there is no way of getting any artisan to come to the house and finish work promised months ago.  Let’s play out a scenario:

Me (on the telephone): Hello French roofing company.  I’m calling about my roof that is not yet fixed.  You’ve started, but it’s been raining and I have a few leaks in the house.

French Roofing Company: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at the end of the month.  Everyone is on vacation.

Me: But you promised my roof would be fixed months ago.  I have leaks in my house.  Isn’t there anyone who could finish the half a day job so I don’t have standing water in my kitchen?

FRC: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at the end of the month.  Everyone is on vacation.

Me: But my roof is leaking! 

FRC: I’m sorry you’ll have to call back at….

See how that gets frustrating?  I often ask Christophe why it’s like this and I never get an answer that seems logical to me.  He mentions something about the chain of supply and demand and when the big fish on the chain takes his vacation, so does everyone else because they can’t get what they need.  Here’s an idea: why doesn’t just part of the office stay and then take their vacation in a few weeks?  This way, the chain will never be broken; business goes on like usual, and people like me can get their leaky roofs fixed.  I know this is a very American point of view, but that’s the logic I grew up with; everyone takes their turn at the wheel and we’ll soon get to where we’re going.  Let’s look at this mass exodus another way: do you want to sit on the beach with 40 gazillion Parisians at once?   

Introducing wheel barrel number 3.

So far, our potato harvest has far surpassed our expectations.  We have gone from counting them singularly, to counting buckets full, to counting crates full, to counting wheel barrels full.  This is our third and I don’t know exactly where we are going to stock all the potatoes, but Christophe is absolutely thrilled.  Thank goodness he harvested the rest of the potatoes when he did because yesterday we had quite a surprise in the garden.  A boar had dug its way through our patch and unearthed potatoes were left scattered on the ground like confetti after a party.  Luckily, it stopped within feet of the saffron because I might have had a culinary heart attack if it had been touched.  Christophe and I were left picking up the potato wreckage in the small, decimated field.  The boar’s handy work made harvesting those still in the ground difficult because we could not see where previous harvesting had stopped since its burrowing had uprooted all the plants.  However, after close inspection, we noticed it didn’t attack the potatoes.  They were just unearthed and left on the ground.  This is strange because a boar can destroy a potato field within minutes.  The boar was looking for worms, which it thankfully found more enticing than our tubers.  This hasn’t stopped our worrying though.  Last night, we took a tour of the garden before going to bed.  Our flashlight revealed a visitor had been present and a few stones were hurled into the woods below followed by loud shouting for good measure.  Looks like this is going to be daily ritual until late autumn when the garden is finished for the year.

To market, to market...

I have a notebook where I jot down ideas of things that I want to share about living in France.  One of those ideas has been staring back at me for a while: the markets.  The markets are part of France’s folklore with abundant quality and a wide spectrum of colors; they are everything “French” tourists look for in their visit.  Thanks to their vibrant atmosphere filled with lively colors, they turn the mundane task of shopping into a memorable morning adventure.  But, the truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a market, and according to friends, even longer since a true market like that has existed in our area.

First, let me address why I don’t go to the market.  The biggest reason is our garden.  It’s huge, and why it does not produce our annual consumption of vegetables, it does provide for us handsomely.  By November, our freeze is full of vegetables that we have not been able to eat fresh.  Next, if I want apples, there are several different wild apples trees that produce amazing fruit in the fall.  Walnuts, chestnuts, blackberries, and pears also grow wild within minutes from my front door.  Three crates of wonderfully ripe peaches arrived this week from a friend, and if I feel like cherries, I just harvest them in early June.  I forgot to mention that I get overrun with figs in late September.  No, we don’t have all of what we need at our fingertips, but I’m not going to find any better going to local market for these products.

The few times I have been to the market, I generally see what I find at the grocery store, I just get bumped and jostled more and it’s a bit louder.  In France, the origins of all produce needs to be labeled, so the peppers from Spain in the market most likely came from the same producer as the one in the grocery store.  There is just a price difference.  I must note, however, I have seen one exception to this and I had no doubt the green peppers I bought came from the saleswoman’s garden because their small twisted shapes resembled the ones we grow.  And, particularly in the summer, the markets are overrun with tourists.  Yes, the region in which I live thrills on this business, so I’m not knocking it, but there are many dishonest salespeople who profit from the image of the French market, jack up their prices when an accent is heard, or don’t sell the real deal.  If I want fruit that I cannot get on my own, I go to a local fruit stand where I am known.  I might be known as being an American, but I am also known as a good customer and year around resident.

Here, I must acknowledge that there are numerous honest and wholesome producers.  There are many products that cannot be found anywhere else than the market and those people should be noted; real producers do exist.  I just think they are few and far between at our local market, and I think that is because of the crowd the market is catering to. 

Our friends, Monsieur and Madame Gousse, used to buy at the local market all the time, but they’ve stopped for this reason.  They welcome the tourist to the region, but they do not welcome those who are taking advantage of them by selling store bought fruit and passing it off as homegrown.  These people are ruining the image of the market.  In the past, the markets emphasized local products and the salespeople where ones who cultivated a relationship with the clientele.  I’ve seen bagged carrots under a salesperson’s stand who got upset when his bluff was called as not being from his garden.  Truth be told, knock off clothes are the most common item.  Don’t get me wrong, there are some amazing markets in the region, but they are more specialized and don’t run year around.  (I’m impatiently waiting for the return of the goat cheese market.)  Markets in the region can be good, but I think they need to be addressed with a word of caution as to what is really being sold.  Is it the product or the image?