Music and Cats

Last year, it was a gleam in the eyes of several Queen Anne neighbors; on Thursday afternoon, the Queen Anne Farmers’ Market opened for the very first time.

I love farmers’ markets. I love the picked-this-morning freshness of the produce, and the intense flavors of the eggs, meats and cheeses. I love meeting the farmers and ranchers who grow the food I eat. I love supporting local agriculture, rather than sending my food dollars to a far-off, faceless corporation. I love the theatricality of a market — the riot of colors, aromas and people, the children and the performers and even the dogs. Socially, politically, aesthetically, gastronomically — I love the entire farmers’ market scene. So when a neighbor mentioned last October that a group was trying to start a market in our neighborhood, I was thrilled. How could I not get involved?

A couple of weeks later, I attended my first meeting of the group that became the Queen Anne Farmers’ Market Association. This group has done tremendous fund-raising and grant-writing, site selection and community outreach. I’ve had only a little time this spring to work on the market, but I’ve had the pleasure of watching a small group of dedicated people working to change their corner of the world. On Thursday, all that hard work finally bore fruit.

Seven blocks from our home, this is the farmers’ market for which I’ve been waiting — one to which I can walk. And, judging from Thursday’s opening day turnout, many of our neighbors have been waiting for this market, too. From opening to closing, the market was filled with people strolling, chatting with friends and farmers, and shopping.

I wandered among the stalls with Paul and our friend Shauna, sampling freshly-smoked salmon and candy-like apricots, buying cherries and asparagus, and taking photos. When they left, I joined other Farmers’ Market Association folks filling helium balloons for the children at the market. I don’t remember how many yellow ribbons I looped around small, outstretched wrists, but each upturned little face was a delight.

Near closing time, I walked through the market, talking with some of the farmers. Several had sold everything that they’d brought; many had done better than they’d expected for the first day of a market. Most were quite happy, and excited about returning next week. They thanked me for helping to bring the market to Queen Anne; I thanked them for taking a chance on a new market.

All through the afternoon and evening, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Yesterday morning, my cheeks were sore from all that smiling. I love farmers’ markets, especially the one in my neighborhood, just down the street.

If you’re in Seattle, you can find the Queen Anne Farmers’ Market every Thursday afternoon until October 4, 3 - 7 p.m., at the corner of Crockett Street and 1st Avenue West. Look for the multicolored flags and lots of smiling faces.

What is Sergei watching so intently? His brother Sasha, up in the tree. That dangling paw is just asking to be attacked.

Where can you see other cats doing all the things cats do? Aboard the Friday Ark, via Weekend Cat Blogging at Pet’s, and at the Carnival of the Cats.

When I read Lindy’s post about Thrice-wise June Pea Soup, I knew that I had to try it. I love split pea soups, particularly those of the sludgy, solid-when-cold variety, but I find those soups too heavy for summer. Deborah Madison augments green split peas with sugar snap peas and English peas for a lighter, fresher soup; the recipe Lindy posted is her adaptation of Madison’s.

Sugar snaps are in abundance at Seattle farmers markets now, and of course one can find frozen English peas year round. I made three small changes to Lindy’s recipe: I omitted the smoked paprika (I had none), and the salt (Paul can’t have it), and added a small red pepper for a touch of heat.

While this soup is nice cold, as I had it for lunch yesterday, I find its flavor and texture more pleasing when it’s hot. And those little rounds of raw sugar snap that I added for the photo shoot turned out to be a lovely, crunchy-juicy-sweet contrast to the soup.

Since I was going to stand at the stove stirring one pot of soup, why not make another at the same time? I needed to use the 2 1/2 pounds of farmers market tomato “seconds” that I’d roasted earlier in the week. I was working without a recipe, tossing in whatever I had on hand that I thought would complement the tomatoes, rendered remarkably sweet by their time in the oven.

I chopped up one small spring onion, a large shallot, two small yellow peppers, and the rest of the fennel bulb from the pea soup, and cooked the vegetables all together in a little olive oil until nicely browned. I added the roasted tomatoes and three cloves of garlic, and simmered for fifteen minutes. The immersion blender turned the mixture into a lumpy puree (and our white-tiled backsplash into a scene from a horror movie); a trip through a fine sieve rendered the puree velvety smooth. I added a cup of chicken stock, and simmered a little longer. A good glug of half-and-half, a pinch of cloves, and hmmm… it needed something to brighten the flavors. As it often will, a spritz of lemon juice did the trick.

My husband is not a fan of tomato soups, so I took it as high praise when, having obediently sampled the spoonful I held in front of his face, he said, “Yeah, I’d eat that.” He paused, then added, “But you’ll probably enjoy it more that I would.” Ah, well, more for me… and enjoy it I have.

At five thirty Wednesday afternoon, as my office began to empty and grow quiet, I was contemplating the work I planned to do that evening. Another couple of hours, I thought, maybe three, before I’d go home.

“Anyone want baseball tickets for tonight? I got ‘em from a contractor. They’re good seats…” I turned to see one of my firm’s partners holding up a pair of tickets. K. continued, “It’s a beautiful night to go have a beer and watch a game.”

I wavered. I had so much work to do… but it was a gorgeous day, and we hadn’t yet been to a game this season. (We usually attend one game per season, and have always relied on the kindness of contractors or engineers for our tickets.) I asked, “What time does the game start?”

A few minutes after seven, Paul and I pushed through the turnstiles into Safeco Field. The seats were just beyond first base, in the third row. A sign posted at the aisle into our section read Please be alert for balls and bats leaving the playing field. I’d never seen that sign before. When we reached our seats, I noticed the same words on the back of each of the seats in front of us. I looked out onto the field. I could see individual blades of grass.

Other times we’ve been to Mariners’ games, we’ve had to walk up a couple of flights of stairs to reach our seats. Often, the players on the field have appeared no larger than they do on our television. In my experience, watching a ball game live has been much like watching the game on TV, but outside, with surround sound and the smell of beer.

Sitting in the third row at first base is, well, a different ball game. First base is a happening place, and we were close enough to hear the thwack of a ball thrown by a fielder hitting the first baseman’s glove, to see the concentration on the face of a runner rounding that base, headed for second. There’s a lot going on in the stands near first base, too. Popped-up fouls landed in the sections to either side of us. One hard drive just foul of the first base line came straight at us — straight at me, it seemed — but the ball hit the edge of the stadium wall, and bounced back onto the field. I was ready to duck behind Paul if that ball kept coming. I am such a girl. (Speaking of girls, the cute teenage ball girl sat right in front of us, and chatted with the young fans between batters. They were thrilled.)

Not only was it a perfect evening for a ball game, blue-skied and breezy, but the Mariners played a game worth watching. They batted well, stole a couple of bases, and made seven runs, including two home runs. (The second home run was along the first base line. I’ve never understood the roar that goes up from a crowd before a homer goes over the fence, but from where we were sitting, I could see the trajectory of that ball, and I knew that it was going into the stands before it was halfway there… and I yelled along with the rest of the crowd.) And the M’s pitcher threw a four-hit shut-out.

But the best part of the evening was not the game, nor even the perfect midsummer’s eve weather. The best part was spending a few hours away from work, away from the house, having an evening out with Paul. We haven’t had enough of those recently. I don’t see this smile on his face often enough. It’s time for that to change.

Sasha’s favorite place to hang is the top tier of the cat tree in our living room. The best part of its round upper deck is the off-center hole in its bottom. Not only does it provide an easy way up, it’s a good place to poke your head down to see what’s happening with the cat toys on the floor. Drop a paw through, drape another over the side, rest your head on the edge, and you’re in the perfect position for watching the world go by.

All the cool cats will be hanging around the Friday Ark, and at Scamperdude’s Weekend Cat Blogging.

What does Sasha see from his tree? (more…)