Open for Business
13/08/17 07:33
I'm getting a bit of a late start this morning so we'll see how far I get. Nancy should be emerging soon from her salacious slumber or wherever she goes when she sleeps. It's a place I can't follow so she is on her own. That said, I know she is awake at the moment if only because I see notifications popping up on my computer screen where she is sending herself e-mails or forwarding articles of interest to follow up on later. I don't know that she cares if I know she is awake or whether or not I see the things she's wanting to save for future reference. Were it not happening in the present I might not care one way or another that she is doing what she's doing. She put me on notice last night though that we needed to get started own our bike ride early today. I think she thought yesterday's ride was less than optimal given that our ride started later than usual and exposed us to more of everything along the way including traffic, heat, congestion, and maybe some other things that I just can't think of at the moment. I can't and won't disagree with that and given my druthers we might have gotten off to an earlier start as well. Not that anyone cares about my druthers.
Nancy and I were under the impression that Miss Marples farm stand was not going to open for business this year after watching with great but waning interest as Spring turned into Summer and the roadside stand that has been nothing if not a cornucopia of wonderfulness stood silent. The owner has always, as had his mother before him, had the best fruits and vegetables on the seacoast bar none. When blueberries were scarcer than hens teeth after the long summer and when the season was long over you could find pint after pint of plump sweet berries at his stand. The same could be said for apples, strawberries, corn, melons, and an occasional bunch of wild flowers that kept the joint looking festive and gay. The flowers were, no doubt, a holdover from a more gentile time when his mother held sway over the operation while her son worked quietly in the background. You never asked and they never revealed just how they came to possess such delicacies when their produce was otherwise out of season and nowhere to be found elsewhere on the Seacoast.
Miss Marple passed away a number of years ago and her son took over responsibility for the day-to-day operation of the farm stand. I once inquired about a certain apple on display known as a Mutsu which I have used for years when making apple pies and which he had just a few on hand as early as mid August. The apple, a cross between a Golden Delicious and a Granny Smith apple, is perfect for every occasion but typically not available before the first frost. Yet, there they were sitting in a basket and available for purchase. To my utter amazement this man who was usually stoic in the long tradition of farm hands turned proprietor after the death of a parent or guardian responded in great detail about the specific apple known as the Mutsu, its origins, characteristics, uses, and various related species. His tee shirt and trousers from head to toe were tattered and dirty, his body oversized and not a good fit for the enclosure in which he stood hunched behind the counter, yet the words coming out of his mouth were telltale of a learned man well versed in his product and his craft, and perhaps more importantly, seemingly content with his station in life. "Those apples are selling for $2.25 a pound today", he muttered as I leaned closer hoping to hear his every word.
The farm stand itself is a small wooden shack with barely enough space for one full grown man to stand behind the counter and is just off the main intersection where two small towns come together. A chapel sits at the top of the hill to the north and an oversized stop sign within eyeshot of the farm stand gives ample warning to motorists driving into the intersection that the intersection just beyond the stand is fraught with danger and to proceed with caution. No doubt, the owner of the stand has seen and heard his share of accidents fatal and otherwise and as such makes little effort to get to know his patrons. His demeanor says as much. But, contrary to expectations, the farm stand did open after a considerable delay and for that we're grateful. The stand, left to its own devices over yet another New Hampshire winter, is more suspect than ever, and the owner is as infirm as ever going into another season where every season now threatens to be his last. We've never tried his homemade chocolate fudge but we might well give it a try this year. There may not be a "next year."
Nancy and I were under the impression that Miss Marples farm stand was not going to open for business this year after watching with great but waning interest as Spring turned into Summer and the roadside stand that has been nothing if not a cornucopia of wonderfulness stood silent. The owner has always, as had his mother before him, had the best fruits and vegetables on the seacoast bar none. When blueberries were scarcer than hens teeth after the long summer and when the season was long over you could find pint after pint of plump sweet berries at his stand. The same could be said for apples, strawberries, corn, melons, and an occasional bunch of wild flowers that kept the joint looking festive and gay. The flowers were, no doubt, a holdover from a more gentile time when his mother held sway over the operation while her son worked quietly in the background. You never asked and they never revealed just how they came to possess such delicacies when their produce was otherwise out of season and nowhere to be found elsewhere on the Seacoast.
Miss Marple passed away a number of years ago and her son took over responsibility for the day-to-day operation of the farm stand. I once inquired about a certain apple on display known as a Mutsu which I have used for years when making apple pies and which he had just a few on hand as early as mid August. The apple, a cross between a Golden Delicious and a Granny Smith apple, is perfect for every occasion but typically not available before the first frost. Yet, there they were sitting in a basket and available for purchase. To my utter amazement this man who was usually stoic in the long tradition of farm hands turned proprietor after the death of a parent or guardian responded in great detail about the specific apple known as the Mutsu, its origins, characteristics, uses, and various related species. His tee shirt and trousers from head to toe were tattered and dirty, his body oversized and not a good fit for the enclosure in which he stood hunched behind the counter, yet the words coming out of his mouth were telltale of a learned man well versed in his product and his craft, and perhaps more importantly, seemingly content with his station in life. "Those apples are selling for $2.25 a pound today", he muttered as I leaned closer hoping to hear his every word.
The farm stand itself is a small wooden shack with barely enough space for one full grown man to stand behind the counter and is just off the main intersection where two small towns come together. A chapel sits at the top of the hill to the north and an oversized stop sign within eyeshot of the farm stand gives ample warning to motorists driving into the intersection that the intersection just beyond the stand is fraught with danger and to proceed with caution. No doubt, the owner of the stand has seen and heard his share of accidents fatal and otherwise and as such makes little effort to get to know his patrons. His demeanor says as much. But, contrary to expectations, the farm stand did open after a considerable delay and for that we're grateful. The stand, left to its own devices over yet another New Hampshire winter, is more suspect than ever, and the owner is as infirm as ever going into another season where every season now threatens to be his last. We've never tried his homemade chocolate fudge but we might well give it a try this year. There may not be a "next year."