“I feel like a junkie in a strange town with no drug connection,” confessed Omniho to me a few days ago. I knew exactly what she meant.
My cousin-in-law and I, along with our respective spouses, have been spending the Thanksgiving holiday in the SOLE food desert of Phoenix, alternating large-group meals at chain restaurants with ones composed primarily of Costco wares. (Since the Potato and I were staying at a hotel off by ourselves, I’ve had a few more options than she did, but I’ll be writing about them later.)
We were dying for a fix, and thanks to the internets, we were able to find a dealer. Yesterday morning we arose early and beelined for the farmers market held Saturdays in downtown Phoenix. It was one of those markets where they let in way too many needlepointers and glass-blown ashtray-makers, IMHO, but they had what we were craving: organic produce and locally made products.
I enjoyed browsing the dozens of offerings at Cotton Country Jams, where the Riley family pickles and jars just about everything, including chow-chow (a spicy relish), okra, spiced crab apples, raspberry-jalapeno rhubarb, prickly pear cactus, and choke cherry. The Potato disdainfully commented afterward that he’d noticed that the margarita marmalade’s ingredient list included “margarita mix,” but I decided that was just country ingenuity at work. Despite the fact that my suitcase had been overweight on the way out, forcing me to shift items to my carry-on, I couldn’t resist buying some habanero mango jam, chipotle tomato jam, and mango chutney (excellent in a grilled cheese sandwich, by the way).
At an information stand touting the plethora of products grown in Arizona, I sampled some Starr Ridge crackers and had to have them. Once again ignoring the suitcase problem, I purchased a box of the Asiago cheese variety and one of the plain.
We also bought some “homemade” butter from Butter Divine, in garlic and honey versions. I asked the lady whether her cows were pastured.
“Oh I don’t have cows!” she said. “I use cream from Shamrock Farms and churn it. But it’s no hormone, no antibiotic, free range and stuff.”
Disappointed, we moved on. The Potato said he thought Shamrock Farms was just a big commercial dairy in Arizona, like Berkeley Farms in the Bay Area, and once we looked it up, he was right: it’s a 10,000-cow dairy that flash-pasteurizes its products. They do, however, claim to be rBGH-free and humane, climate-controlled, etc. (Heat is a big issue for Arizona dairies.) It’s been impossible for us to even find rBGH-free half-and-half that doesn’t have weird corn products added to it — unlike Omniho, we haven’t had time to go to the Whole Foods here, so we’ve been reluctantly drinking “shelf-stable” creamer. We’ve also been told by someone who should know that the organic dairies around here are tiny, unable to supply commercial customers, but I think they could probably handle the butter-churning lady’s needs.
Since we didn’t get around to eating it yesterday, dining instead at the market’s organic Indian-food stand (mouth-puckeringly wonderful lemonade with cardamom and black salt) with an adjoining tent and throw pillows, we had the butter for breakfast this morning. It was rich, creamy, and the garlic-and-scallion one was delicious smeared on an olive baguette, also from the farmers market. I decided that on the Ethicurean rating system of Revolting-Bad-OK-Good-Better-Best, which is a sliding scale determined by locale and influenced by tastiness, the butter rated a Good.
I opted not to open the jams, as I’m afraid they’ll then be more likely to spill, but I’ll report back on them — and other culinary adventures from our trip — once we’re at home tomorrow.
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