Thanks, Farmers

Tonight we ate like Minnesota-farm-spoiled gluttons.

On the dinner table: caprese salad, sweet corn, BLTs with cheese and avocado. I'm sure there's a lot of fat hanging out there, but man, I am just in heaven when I eat all that.

Nearly every weekend in the summer, we head to the St. Paul Farmer's Market and load up on whatever the farmers have grown for us that week. If we had this weather year-round, people would be dying for our produce.

To me, you can ship all the Driscoll's raspberries you want to Minnesota, but by the time they get here, they taste no better than the plastic they're shipped in. When I was a kid, my mom had rows of raspberry bushes outside, and we would head out there with giant mixing bowls. Every night we endured the awful mosquitoes (they love hanging around the plants) to pluck all those juicy, raspberries from overgrown bushes. (Sometimes I'd just watch from the swingset while my mom did all the hard work.) We'd have mixing bowls heaping over, and my mom would make jam and we would eat raspberries with cream every night after dinner. Juicy, giant, sweet and tart all at once. A huge taste in a small package. The way they're meant to taste.

Same with tomatoes. A beefsteak tomato in August with a cob of sweet corn, dripping with butter. Can't beat it.

When I was little, I never understood how my parents could gorge on that stuff every week. Now, I do the exact same thing. William and I pushed away from the table tonight, totally stuffed--but not uncomfortably so--ending our meals with the perfect bite of salty/sweet/juicy. Mmmm.

Sometimes the small things in life can be so good. Thanks, farmers, for all your work.